Eve Silver (16 page)

There, at the very back was a small rectangular object. Emma stared at it, excitement stirring in her breast. She wiped her hand on her apron then reached in. Her fingers closed around the thing and she drew forth a finely tooled leather-bound book. She riffled the pages and a jumble of words sped past, the decidedly feminine script indicating that her discovery was a woman’s diary. Tucking the small volume away in her pocket, she rose and moved on to the next room, intending to examine her prize when she had a free moment.

After opening the window of the final chamber, Emma set her thoughts and her hands to finishing the task she had begun. She dipped her rag in the bucket, and then wrung the excess moisture from the cloth. Pushing a stray hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, she then swiped the cloth along the window ledge, wiping it clean. Fresh air swirled through the open window, the cool breeze welcome on her flushed cheeks.

She had worked for some time, with only the floor left to wash, when she paused, every sense alert. Perhaps a sound caught her attention, or a movement from the corner of her eye. Or perhaps it was only the secret wish of her heart that made her think she was no longer alone. She froze, her heart accelerating with a mixture of trepidation and hope.

Slowly, she turned away from the window, every nerve alight with a shimmer of awareness. Her breath left her in a rush.

In the doorway stood Lord Anthony. He leaned against the threshold with arms folded, one booted foot crossed over the other. His dark hair was windblown, a single strand caressing the hard angle of his jaw.

For a moment, she thought she imagined him, conjured him from the cauldron of her secret desire.

“You are returned earlier than expected, my lord.” Those words she spoke aloud, though the remainder of her thoughts were hers alone.
I missed you, dreamed of you. Your touch. Your kiss. I am undone with wanting you.

His intent gaze roamed over her face, her body, leaving her feeling hot and flushed each place it touched. And she could not help but wonder if he knew the secret thoughts and fantasies that left her hot and restless in the night.

Moving with languid grace, he entered, his polished Hessians tapping on the bare floor, the sound echoing hollowly in the empty room. The corded muscles of his thighs rippled beneath the cloth of his buff breeches. He had not bothered to divest himself of his square cut coat, but came to her smelling of sunshine and fresh air.

And Emma did not doubt that he came to
her
. She felt it in every fiber of her being. Her blood pounded in her veins, leaving her breathless, aching.

You will be here when we return?
He had asked her that before, and she had registered somewhere in her consciousness that her answer was important to him.

He stood so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body, see the hunger in his eyes.

“My lord,” she said, backing up a step, her foot brushing against the bucket. Abruptly, she recalled her disheveled state, her stained garments and work roughened hands. Her foot nudged the broom.

“Anthony,” he said huskily. “Say my name, Emma.”

“Anthony,” she whispered, struggling to draw breath.

“I could not stay away,” he said, his tone bewildered, as though he could not fathom the reason. Reaching out, he brushed a stray tendril from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Though his touch was gentle, Emma read a savagery in his eyes that kindled wicked sparks and sent a bolt of longing racing through her body, bringing her to aching, throbbing life.

She tried to slow her breathing, to stop the flood of heat and damp that pooled between her thighs. Dear heaven, he came upon her like a storm, wreaking havoc with her composure. And all he did was stand there, looking at her with those green-gold eyes, the promise of untold pleasure in his gaze.

She retreated, sliding her feet backwards step by step, thinking that distance might sever the bond that surged between them. Each movement of her limbs stroked her, accentuating the exquisite anguish that she barely comprehended.

As he watched her, Anthony's mouth curved in a hard sensual line, empathy clear in his expression. He knew. Dear heaven. He knew what his mere presence was doing to her.

“Come here,” he said softly, his voice thick.

“I—” She tried to speak. The sound she uttered was a hoarse croak, so unfamiliar that she was stunned into silence.

Anthony held his hand toward her, a simple gesture that drew her more strongly than any pretty phrase. She wanted to go to him. To step into his arms and feel their hard strength surround her. To live for a single second the dream of being loved by him. He wanted her. Of that she was certain. Just as she was certain that he offered her nothing.

“What do you want of me?” She forced the words out. They might have sounded plaintive, had she used a different tone. Instead, the question sounded like a challenge. Better to have him say it than to let her mind conjure his thoughts. After all, she might be wrong.

“What do I want of you?” His brow furrowed as he contemplated her question; then he gave a self-deprecating bark of laughter. “I want what I have no right to. I want to see you naked in my bed, your hair unpinned and spread on my pillow. Or to see you clad only in your black stockings. Nothing more. So I can peel them off slowly. Run my tongue along the back of your calf, your thigh, to your pretty round bottom.”

His words were scandalous, terrible. Wonderful. He should not speak to her so.
Oh, but he should
, a tiny voice whispered. He should say those things and do those things, because if the mere sound of his voice could send such unbearable pleasure ripping through her, what then would she feel if he matched action to thought?

She sank her teeth into her lower lip and shook her head in confusion.

When she did not speak, he continued, “That night in the portrait gallery, I could have taken you.”

He paused, perhaps waiting for her to contradict him. Emma longed to cover her ears, to block out the truth of his words. But she offered no denial. He
could
have taken her that night, there against the stone wall, with the portrait of his dead wife looking on. Even then she had been enthralled despite her fear, half in love with the Lord of Manorbrier.

Anthony took a single step closer. “But I have no desire to
take
. What do I want of you, Emma? Only that which you wish to give.”

“I do not wish to give you anything.” The words came out in a breathy rush, jumbling together in their haste to leave her tongue. They were a pitiful attempt to deny her feelings, her overwhelming desire for him. If she did not force the lie out quickly, she would not be able to say it at all.

 Emma's retreat brought her to the wall. Her back pressed against the solid surface. Burying her fingers in the coarse weave of her skirt, she thought of her mother’s warnings, ringing in her ears from the time she was a child, and she thought of Meg.
The babe's father ain't going to claim it, or me. Quality never do
.

Was that what she wanted? To be like Meg? Like her mother? Pregnant and alone? She would jeopardize her place here, her chance to make a difference in Nicky’s life, her opportunity to love and raise him.

A low moan of distress escaped her.

Looking at him, the perfection of Anthony Craven, Emma tried to sort through her thoughts.
He offered her nothing
. But was that true? He did not offer marriage. Respectability. Home and children. But she had no chance of those, regardless. He offered her a taste of life. For a moment, a week, a month, she could have
him
. And when it was done, she would have the memories of him for a lifetime. The idea was a temptation of the most compelling kind.

“Why me?” she asked breathlessly. “You could dally with a village girl, or go to London. I am certain you would have little trouble satisfying your—” She stopped abruptly, unable to form the words to accurately reflect the shadowy picture in her mind.

“I could,” he agreed, apparently taking pity on her. Allowing her the dignity of leaving her thoughts unspoken.

Why me? Why me?
Her question hung between them, unanswered. Emma had the sudden insight that perhaps he could not explain their attraction. He simply felt it, as did she.

“I could not endure it if you send me away. From Nicky, I mean. I do love him, Anthony.” Her breath came in short, shallow gasps that accentuated each sentence she spoke.

She ought to make a sensible decision, though that hardly seemed possible while her heart pounded in her chest and her mind invented unfulfilled images of Anthony touching her. And she touching him.

He held her pinned by his hot gaze, plundering her soul with the desire she read there. “The way your breath catches as you whisper my name pleases me.” He took another step closer.

With a quick dart of her tongue Emma wet her lips. They felt swollen. She felt swollen. Her breasts, and there, between her legs.

He took his time crossing the remainder of the space that separated them. His gaze remained locked on hers and she thought he must know the secrets of her deepest thoughts, her private yearning, her unutterable confusion.

“Do you understand what goes on between a man and a woman?” His voice was soft, pouring over her like warm honey.

Unable to speak, Emma nodded. One could hardly grow up in a rural setting and not acquire some basic knowledge of procreation. Though she doubted that human activities were an exact replica of barnyard animals, she had a basic idea that two bodies merged as one. And when she had lived with her aunts, Annie, the downstairs maid, had been fairly forthcoming in her tales of the nocturnal activities in which she had participated in, along with suggestions of how a girl could avoid getting with child.

Anthony leaned closer, the luscious scent of him and the heat of his body such potent lures. She had ample time to flee, to deny the craving that gnawed at her feminine core with an intensity that was almost painful. Though her mind warned her that her chosen course was folly, she stood unmoving, her back pressed against the solid wall.

Her body wanted this, ached for it. She wanted this, wanted him.

She gasped as Anthony’s palm came flat against the wall, just above her left shoulder. Turning her head, she looked at his splayed fingers, and then returned her gaze to his.

“I do not wish to be a sensible girl,” Emma whispered. Her heart pounded in delicious expectation, and she was darkly, fiercely glad that he had come to her.

He made a sound low in his throat, half groan, half laugh. It triggered a crashing wave of desire that tore through her body with the violence of a storm. Emma was thankful for the support of the wall at her back, else she might have melted into a boneless puddle at his feet. The sound of her breathing—or was it his?—registered in her mind, harsh and rough.

Again she licked her lips. He took it as an invitation, leaning forward enough to run his tongue along the corner of her mouth. She cried out softly, stunned by the contact. As her lips parted, he pressed his mouth to hers. His tongue slid inside, just a bit, just enough to let her taste him. And then deeper, lips and tongue and teeth. Wet dark pleasure.

He braced himself on outstretched arms, holding his body from her, touching her only with his mouth. It was not enough. The tips of her breasts strained against the cloth of her bodice. Emma arched her spine, wanting more, wanting to feel the whole of his hard length pressed against her. Such heat. Such need.

“Ah-h-h-h.” A lingering, slow exhalation resonated with her pleasure as Anthony deliberately lowered his weight, pinning her to the wall, his long body molding to hers, his muscled thigh between her own. Lush sensation, foreign and far too enticing.

She inhaled through his mouth, through hers, light-headed with longing, the taste and feel of him spilling through her with that luscious endless kiss. With a low groan he slid his body on hers, rubbing against her as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, making her ache and want and gasp, on fire for him. Tilting her head, she sucked him deeper, then caught his lower lip between her teeth, biting, sucking, sliding her hands around his waist, and lower, until her palms pressed against the hard globes of his buttocks, the cloth of his breeches soft and smooth to her touch.

She curled her fingers, felt the fine flex of muscle as she pulled him closer, rubbing slowly back and forth, moving with blind instinct, her hips tight to his, and the wet, throbbing heat of her desire pounding at her core. Poised on the edge of a precipice, if she simply took a step she would fall into…into…
something
. But she had no idea which way to step, how to relieve this pressure that built inside her like steam inside a covered cooking pot. She was boiling and churning—

“Oh, please. Oh, I…I need...”

Pulling back, he looked down at her and pressed his fingers to her lips, cutting off what she might have said. Emma slid her tongue into the crack between his fingers, licking, tasting. A sharp hiss of air escaped him, and she felt a profound feminine thrill, for whatever wild yearning writhed at her core, its mate lived within him. She felt it calling to her.

“You want me,” she whispered, half seductress, half pleased innocent.

“I do.” His voice was deep and raspy. So masculine.

A last vestige of common sense made her speak. “You will honor your word…you will not send me away from Nicky? When we are done? When it is over?” Oh, that she was so beguiled by him, that the words escaped her on a breathy gasp, that she truly intended to deny all she had been, all she was, the illegitimate daughter of a woman who had made exactly this mistake.

 At her question, something shifted in his eyes, heat and need fading to cool bottle-green glass. She frowned, oddly distressed, sensing a change in him as he slowly blew out a breath and pulled away.

“No.” All her disappointment centered in that one word, crushing, terrible disappointment as he pulled back even further. She loved the feel of his kiss, the way his lips and tongue stroked, caressed, and his teeth, gentle nips and slow bites. More. She wanted more.