Saved By Scandal's Heir. Janice PrestonЧитать онлайн книгу.
body—despite the best efforts of her brain to stay in control—had kept her awake half the night. She had been oh-so-tempted by him. His lovemaking in their youth had been unpractised, as had hers. Now he, like she, would possess a certain skill. She wondered again how it might feel to lie with him, but did not dwell on the thought. It would surely bring regret. He had blood on his hands. Innocent blood. No matter how she might desire him, she could never forgive him.
She gazed across the landscape, dazzling in the sunlight—seeing it, but barely paying it the attention it deserved, all her senses straining for an awareness of Benedict’s whereabouts. After several tense minutes she heard the door that led onto the roof open. She had no need to look to know that Benedict had followed her: the rising hairs on her nape confirmed his presence, and the gooseflesh that skittered across her arms wasn’t purely caused by the chill wind. She sensed the gap between them narrowing, until she could hear the quiet sound of his breathing and she could feel the heat of his body warming the air between them and she could smell...him. Still familiar, after all this time.
She swallowed. A maelstrom of emotions buffeted her this way and that but she strove to stay calm, to stay in control.
‘It is as beautiful as I remember,’ she said. ‘I count it as fortunate the weather is so good today—it has afforded me the opportunity to see the wonder of the countryside again.’ She hugged her cloak around her as a gust of wind attempted to tear it open.
‘It is a spectacular sight,’ Benedict said, his deep voice close by her ear, raising another shiver. ‘But it is very cold up here. Come, you must not catch a chill, or you will be forced to endure even more of my company.’
She could hear the effort he put into that light-hearted remark. His tone did not quite ring true and it forced her—for the first time—to consider how her presence was affecting him. Did he feel guilt over his betrayal? Was there a pang of conscience over the death of the baby, born too soon, who’d never had the chance to draw breath? Was there any regret—a tiny speck, even if it was well buried? He had not even mentioned the child, seemed uninterested in whether it was alive or dead. Had he wiped his memory clear of the fact she had ever been with child?
Would that she could so easily forget. Her empty arms still ached, as did her heart, at the knowledge that she would never now experience the joy of motherhood, for never again would she risk marrying and placing such power over herself and her body in any man’s hands. And she resented—deeply—the fact that Benedict not only felt no guilt and had experienced none of her grief, but also that he was now poised to become a wealthy powerful man—and marry and have a family—whereas she...she was destined to remain loveless and childless for the rest of her days.
She swung away from the view and sidestepped around Benedict to head for the door but, as on the previous evening, he was there before her.
‘Allow me to go first,’ he said. ‘In case you miss your step.’
At Benedict’s words, an image rose to tempt her: that of her stumbling...of him catching her in his arms...of him lifting her chin and lowering his head. Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened as she took especial care in descending the spiral stairs, clutching with gloved fingers at the thick rope that looped from bracket to bracket all the way down. Back on the ground floor without incident, her breathing eased and her racing heart steadied as she straightened her cloak in readiness for the walk back to the house.
‘Harriet...’
Her name hung in the air.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to his. She could not read his expression in the dim light that filtered through the window, but she did see the muscle leap in his jaw. The air between them crackled with intensity and her pulse responded with a lurch and a gallop. All moisture seemed to have been sucked from her mouth, and she licked at her dry lips as he moved closer. His gaze fastened on her mouth, sending desire sizzling through her. Pure instinct tilted her head, lifting her lips to his.
Aah. The most delicate of touches. Lip to lip...sweet, gentle, almost worshipping. Memories of love and laughter and pure joy. They had been so young. A shared future planned. They had followed the instinctive desires of their youthful bodies. She had felt so secure in his love for her. Before...
Harriet switched her thoughts away from the past and into the present. A kiss. Why should they not? It was just a kiss.
She leaned into him, raising her hands to his shoulders, broad and strong. A man’s body, reminding her he was no longer a youth. A silent sigh for what might have been echoed through her, and tears sprang to her eyes.
He deepened the kiss, his arms coming around her, moulding her to him as his tongue swept into her mouth and tangled with hers. His groan vibrated through her core and she could feel the steady thump of his heart as he tightened his hold, raising her onto her toes. His arousal pressed against her, and anticipation tugged deep inside her. Her own heart thudded in tandem with his as she explored his shoulders and back. She stroked his neck and threaded her fingers through his hair, knocking his hat to the floor. The thought surfaced that her gloves must go but, before she could act on that thought, he changed, urgency taking control.
Her toes barely scraped the floor as he lifted her higher, and backed her against the wall. She couldn’t breathe. Panic mushroomed out of the past, bringing it all back—the pain, the disgust—and she swung her head in denial, wrenching her lips from his, grabbing his hair to jerk his head away. He grunted a protest, seized her wrists and raised her arms, stretching them up, above her head, trapping her between his body and the wall, and tasted her again, invading her with his tongue.
She could not move. She was trapped. A scream built inside. She had learned to submit, but this was not Brierley. He was gone.
Harriet twisted her head to one side. ‘No!’ She panted with the effort not to scream. ‘No!’ Louder. More forceful.
Benedict stilled. Raised his head to look at her with dazed eyes. ‘What...?’
‘Let go of me.’
He released her. Stepped back. Frowned. ‘Why?’
Harriet stared at the blurry floor. Wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. ‘I cannot. I am—’
‘Don’t say you’re sorry,’ he said in a savage voice. ‘I don’t want to hear your excuses.’
He swung away and slammed through the door, crashing it shut behind him, leaving Harriet alone, trembling with the memories that she had tried so hard to put behind her.
* * *
Benedict strode down the hill, away from the tower, his blood pounding with fury and unquenched desire. How weak-willed could a man be? After her rejection—twice—still he had left himself wide open for another blow. His brisk pace did little to assuage the urge to lash out and, as he entered the Home Wood, on the path that led back to the house, he snatched a fallen branch from the ground to slash at last season’s dried-up undergrowth as he passed.
His instinct was to leave. Return to London. Bury himself in his work and his plans for the future or jump on the nearest ship and seek out new adventures. Anything rather than stay here and suffer any more of her games, leading a man on and then freezing him out.
The house came into view. He slammed to a halt. Considered. Then changed direction.
He strode into the barn, then slowed so as not to spook the horses in the stalls. Heads turned enquiringly to watch his progress along the passageway, and he breathed in the familiar, calming smell of horses, leather and hay, pausing to pat one or two gleaming rumps as he passed.
A groom’s head popped out from the end stall. ‘Morning, sir,’ he called. ‘Was you going out?’
‘Yes.’ The question spurred him into a decision. ‘Saddle the bay, will you, Tom?’
A long, fast ride would do him the power of good. It would douse both his temper and his lust and, hopefully, blast away the confusion that had beset him ever since Harriet had reappeared in his life. He swept his hand through his hair, realising he had lost his