Regency High Society Vol 4: The Sparhawk Bride / The Rogue's Seduction / Sparhawk's Angel / The Proper Wife. Miranda JarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
was sprinkled on those berries to make her change her tune so abruptly? Oh, he liked it—he liked it just fine—but she was woefully mistaken if she thought he’d turn her loose for a few smiles and fluttered lashes. She might have been the reigning belle of her provincial little Yankee town, but beside the Frenchwomen he’d known, who’d raised flirtation to an art, she was only one more green, country virgin.
He held out his hand to her and helped her to her feet, enjoying her surprise at his gallantry. Her hand was so small in his, fine boned and fragile, exactly the kind of well-bred hand she would have, and he held it a fraction longer than he should, just long enough to disconcert her into tugging it away.
“As you wish, Miss Sparhawk,” he said, trying not to stare at the way the berries had stained her mouth such a vivid, seductive red. “Not that a stone wall will be much warmer than the ground.”
“Fine words, those, after you’ve made me sleep on the ground!” She perched on the wall, carefully keeping her skirt bunched to hold the berries.
“There was musty straw one night, too, as I recall.” He sat beside her, close enough that her skirts ruffled against his thigh, and close enough, too, that her eyes widened uneasily. But she didn’t move away, and to his amusement he wondered which one of them had won that particular point. “Yet I’ll agree, ma belle, that the accommodations haven’t exactly been fit for a lady.”
Only a man, thought Jerusa as she struggled to keep her composure. Only a man, even if he insists in practically sitting in my lap!
Swiftly she reached up to pluck his hat from his head and began to scoop his share of the strawberries into the crown. “Then I suppose I must be thankful it’s summer, not December or January, else my bed would be a snowbank.”
“Ah, but consider, ma belle, that June in New England must be equal to December in most other places.” He took his hat from her with a slight nod of thanks, as if he’d always used it as a serving bowl. That one, he thought wryly, he’d concede to her. “In Martinique a day like this would make the ladies run for their shawls and huddle next to a fire.”
Her green eyes lit with genuine interest. “Is that where your home is? Martinique?”
“It has been,” he said, purposefully noncommittal and already regretting that he’d volunteered as much as he had. “I’ve traveled many places, ma chérie, and seen many things.”
“Men can do that, can’t they?” Slowly she began to pull the leaves of the hull from the berry in her hands. Unlike every other man she’d known, this one didn’t talk incessantly about himself. Could he really have that much to hide? “And have you a wife to keep your home in Martinique, Mr. Géricault?”
The idea alone struck Michel as so ridiculous that he didn’t bother denying it. “You’re an inquisitive little soul, Jerusa Sparhawk.”
“Well, and why not? You already know everything there is to know about me.”
“Ah, but that’s much of my trade, ma chérie,” he said lightly. He could tell her that much, for she’d never understand. “Soldier-man, sailor-man, beggar-man, thief—I’ve tried them all, and more besides. Now I trade in secrets. For kings or governors, rich men or merely desperate ones.”
“You’re a mercenary?”
“I do the things that others haven’t the courage to do. For a price, of course.”
Again he flashed that lazy smile that made her wonder if he’d invented it all to tease her. It could be true; she’d certainly heard worse nonsense from men, and at least he didn’t seem to be bragging.
She turned the hulled berry over and over in her fingers, her interest in eating it gone. “What,” she asked softly, “was the price for kidnapping me?”
“My price?” he repeated, thinking of his mother’s pale, tortured face against the rumpled linens of her bed. “My price for taking you, ma chère, was beyond all the gold in your precious Newport.”
For a moment, just for a moment, she had truly thought he would tell her why, and disappointment turned her voice bitter. “All the gold in Newport won’t restore my good name, either, not after I’ve spent so much time alone with you.”
Strange how closely she echoed his mother’s wish, to ruin Jerusa Sparhawk’s honor as her father had done to Maman, rob her of the same hopes and dreams. All that remained was to bring the girl to Martinique for his mother to see her shame for herself.
It had all come to pass so easily; too easily, really, for him to feel any sort of satisfaction. That, he supposed, would come when he met with her father and brothers. What more could he want from her?
“So what will Carberry say, ma fille,” he said slowly, watching her reaction even as he wondered at his own, “when he learns of how we traveled together, ate together, slept together?”
Jerusa’s face grew hot with humiliation at how much he was suggesting. “We—I’ve allowed you no liberties.”
“I haven’t taken any, either, ma belle, no matter how many opportunities you’ve offered to me.”
Automatically she opened her mouth to protest, then stopped, speechless, and he knew from her eyes the exact, horrified instant she remembered how he’d first drugged her into unconsciousness, how he’d cut her clothing away, how she’d wept away her sorrow in his embrace. Any more opportunities like that and he’d qualify for sainthood.
“Your Tom would find you in exactly the same honorable state as he left you last. He would, at least, if he decides to welcome you back.”
“Of course he will, once I talk to him.” Jerusa’s chin rose bravely. “Besides, Father will make him marry me.”
“How wonderfully romantic.” And how much like the Sparhawks, he thought cynically.
“But I love Tom!” she cried in anguish. “Nothing you can say or do can change that! I love him!”
Despite her brave words, Michel saw the hopelessness in the tears that made her eyes too bright. She had loved Carberry and now she’d lost him, but with the pride of her breaking heart she wouldn’t let him go.
“I never said you didn’t, chérie.” Gently he reached out to brush her cheek with the back of his hand, and he felt her quiver beneath his touch. “But do you love this selfish man enough not to care if he doesn’t love you in return? Enough that you’ll be content as another of his ornaments, one more pretty toy among his snuffboxes?”
His face was too close to hers, each word a feather-light breath against her skin. Other men in her past had sat beside her and she’d thought nothing of it. Other men had dared to touch her cheek, and she’d laughed and struck their hands away. But with Michel she was trembling, her heart pounding in her breast. The blue of his eyes was like a pool that drew her in deeper and deeper until she knew she was foundering, far over her head.
He turned his hand to cradle her face against his palm, his fingers carrying the masculine leather scent of his gloves and the horse’s reins.
“Tell me, ma chérie,” he whispered, his voice as soft as black velvet. “Do you love him enough that you’d settle for ashes when you could reach for the fire?”
And then his lips found hers, the way she’d at once desired and feared they would, and without further thought, her eyes fluttered shut. He kissed her lightly at first, his mouth barely grazing against hers as he let her grow accustomed to him. Gradually he increased the pressure and the pleasure with it, and she thought again of the bottomless pool, deep enough to swallow her up forever. And God help her, she didn’t care. His lips were warm and sure on hers, the sensations heightened by the roughness of his beard on her skin, and, with a tiny gasp of surrender, her own lips parted for him, searching for more.
But instead she found nothing, the warmth and