The Temptation of Your Touch (12 page)

If Max had thought to check his pocket watch before he left his bedchamber, what would he have found? That it was rapidly approaching the moment when something so terrible had happened in this house even time had stopped to mourn it?

He
had
ordered Mrs. Spencer to have the clock fixed. Perhaps in her eagerness to please him, she had done just that.

A skeptical snort escaped him as he dropped the useless candlestick and went speeding down the stairs, rounding the ornately carved newel at the bottom of the staircase to bring himself face-to-face with the clock.

The ticking had ceased. Wan moonlight bathed the clock’s impassive face, revealing its motionless hands dutifully stationed at the twelve and the three. Max’s heart was left to beat on all alone.

Curling his hands into fists, he swung away from the clock and swept his gaze over the entrance hall.
He was shocked to realize he wasn’t the least bit afraid. He was angry. He didn’t care for being toyed with, not by any man or woman and certainly not by some chit of a ghost who still fancied herself mistress of
his
house.

As if to taunt him, a sweet ripple of girlish laughter danced through the entrance hall. Max strode to the center of the hall, then slowly turned, holding his breath to listen. Too many rooms and corridors led off the hall to determine from which direction the laughter was coming.

The moon drifted behind a wisp of a cloud, bathing the hall in shadows. That was when he saw it—the briefest flash of white down a darkened corridor, like the trailing skirts of a woman’s gown as she darted around a corner.

Spurred on by the thrill of the hunt, Max broke into long strides. As he rounded the corner where he had seen the flash of white, he sensed a presence in the darkness ahead of him, moving quickly.

But not quickly enough.

Another corner loomed at the end of the corridor. He quickened his pace. He had no intention of letting his prey escape, not when he was this close to getting his hands on it. As he swung around the corner, his arms shot out to seize whatever they found in front of him.

He was half-expecting them to close on empty
air. Which was why it was such a shock to his senses when the bundle he hauled against his chest turned out to be warm, soft, and ever so human.

As his captive squirmed against him, panting with frustration, it wasn’t the haunting scent of jasmine that tickled his nose but another aroma—one that made his stomach clench with hunger and reminded him just how bland his supper of overcooked beef and underdone potatoes had been. Puzzled, he wrinkled his nose. Could a ghost smell of something as mundane, yet irresistible to a man’s appetites, as freshly baked bread and cinnamon biscuits?

The bundle in his arms abruptly stopped squirming. After a moment of silence, an acerbic voice came out of the darkness. “The next time you need something in the middle of the night, my lord, you might try simply ringing the bell.”

Chapter Eleven

A
NNE HELD HER BREATH
as she awaited Lord Dravenwood’s response, resisting the dangerous urge to relax against the broad expanse of his chest. For such a cold man, he was incredibly warm. He radiated heat like a cookstove on a blustery December day.

Once he had seized her, it hadn’t taken her long to realize her struggles against his unyielding arms were futile. He seemed to be exceptionally well formed for a man who had probably spent much of his career seated behind a desk.

Despite holding herself as stiffly as she could, there could be no denying the shocking intimacy of his makeshift embrace. One of his muscular arms was cinched around her waist while the other was wrapped firmly around her shoulders, just above the swell of her breasts. He’d planted his feet apart to balance them both, leaving her legs to dangle
between his splayed thighs, the tips of her toes barely brushing the floor. His hips cradled the softness of her rump as if they’d been designed by their Maker for just such a provocative purpose.

The awkward silence only made the rasp of his ragged breathing more obvious. His chest hitched unevenly against her back while his heated breath caressed the back of her neck. A helpless shiver of reaction danced over her flesh. Anne almost wished she’d left her hair unbound to protect her vulnerable nape from that tantalizing assault instead of dividing it into two precise braids.

She had assumed identifying herself would win her freedom.

She had assumed wrong. Although Lord Dravenwood’s grip had softened a nearly imperceptible degree, his arms showed no sign of relinquishing their prize. He lowered his head next to hers in the darkness, his brandy-scented breath grazing the side of her throat.

Her eyes drifted shut as if even the darkness was too much for them to bear. She could feel both her muscles and her will softening of their own accord. Could feel her head listing to the side to expose the tingling curve of her throat to his lips.

It had been so long since a man had touched her . . . kissed her yearning lips. If he turned her in his arms
and used his weight to bear her back against the nearest wall, would she have the strength to resist him? Or would she twine her arms around his neck and draw his warm, seeking lips down to hers?

“Honey. Sugar,” he murmured, his husky baritone a seduction all its own. His breath danced over the delicate swath of skin behind her ear. “Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Vanilla. Fresh cream.”

His words slowly penetrated the languorous haze threatening to overcome her. She frowned in bewilderment. He wasn’t whispering endearments but ingredients. And it wasn’t his lips gliding toward the curve between her throat and shoulder but his nose.

Her eyes flew open. The man wasn’t trying to seduce her; he was
sniffing
her!

“My lord,” she snapped, having no difficulty whatsoever striking just the right note of exasperation, “have you any intention of unhanding me before morning?”

This time her words had the desired effect. Dravenwood released her so abruptly she stumbled and nearly fell. She was surprised by how chilly the air felt without his arms to shield her from it.

She slowly turned to face him. He loomed over her, a faceless silhouette against the deeper shadows.

“Why do you always smell like that?” he demanded, his voice deepening to a near growl.

“Like what?”

“Like something that just came out of the oven. Something warm and freshly baked.”

Although it certainly wasn’t the accusation she had expected, Anne still felt oddly guilty. “As housekeeper, I spend a fair amount of my day in the kitchen planning the weekly menus and overseeing the cook.”

“I’ve yet to see anything emerge from the kitchen of
this
house that smells like
that
. Except for you, that is.”

“Is that what drove you to accost me? You mistook me for a warm cross bun?”

“I mistook you for”—he hesitated—“an intruder. It’s a risk you run when you wander about the manor in the dead of night . . . without your clothes,” he added pointedly.

Anne could almost feel the heat of his gaze sweeping over her. Apparently, his night vision was much keener than hers. She touched a hand to her throat, reassuring herself there was no need to stammer or blush in embarrassment. Her modest nightdress shrouded her from throat to ankle. Of course, now he knew exactly what it was shrouding. He had felt the softness of her curves mold to the hardness of his own body, had felt the wild patter of her heart as she writhed against him.

“I thought I heard a noise so I came to investigate,” she said primly.

“Without a lamp? Or even so much as a candle?”

“I would think you’d be more in need of a candle than I would. I’m far more familiar with the house and less likely to bark my shins or tumble down a flight of stairs.”

“Or out a fourth-floor window,” he said coolly, reminding them both of the fate another, less fortunate, master of the house had met.

Anne’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She could feel him studying her again, but was grateful she couldn’t see his expression. She would do well to guard her sharp tongue. If she goaded him into dismissing her, all was lost.

“I left my chamber with a candle,” he finally admitted. “But it was lost to a draft.”

“Old houses do tend to have an abundance of those.”

“Among other things. Aren’t you the least bit concerned about roaming around the manor in the dark yourself when it’s been rumored there’s a vengeful ghost on the loose?”

Anne shrugged. “We seem to have reached a mutual agreement with our White Lady. We don’t trouble her and she doesn’t trouble us.”

“Aha!” He drew a step closer to her, bringing his
triumphant features into focus. “So you do believe in ghosts!”

“It’s impossible to live in this house and not believe in spirits of some sort. The past can be a very powerful influence on the present.”

“Only for those who insist on dwelling in it.” His words had a bitter edge, as if he had recognized the irony in them even before they were out of his mouth. “You claimed you heard a noise. Just what did you hear?”

“Nothing of consequence. Probably just a loose shutter banging against a window.”

“I heard a woman laughing.”

His stark confession hung between them, a shimmering thread of truth cutting through the darkness.

It pained her to neatly sever that thread with her next words. “What you most likely heard was a pair of housemaids giggling over some nonsense in their beds. The girls rise early and work hard during the day. I try not to deny them their simple pleasures.”

He was silent for so long Anne knew he hadn’t believed a word of her explanation. But he’d been a diplomat long enough to recognize a standoff when he saw one. “What of yourself, Mrs. Spencer?”

“Pardon?” she asked, confused by his question.

“Do you deny yourself your simple pleasures? Or do you prefer the more complicated ones?”

For a long moment Anne found it difficult to breathe, much less formulate a coherent answer. When she finally did, the arid formality had been restored to her tone. “I trust you can find your way back to your bed, my lord. I’ll strive to see you pass the rest of your night undisturbed.”

As she turned away from him, she would have almost sworn she heard him mutter beneath his breath, “Pity, that.”

She started down the darkened corridor, still feeling the prick of his suspicious gaze against her back. She forced herself to measure each step, though she was nearly overcome by the absurd notion that he was going to seize her again. That he was only a breath away from closing the distance between them so he could wrap a powerful arm around her waist and draw her back against the seductive heat of his body. She’d resisted the temptation to melt against all of that enticing masculine strength once, but she wasn’t sure she’d have the fortitude to do it again.

She waited until she’d reached the shelter of the servants’ staircase before giving in to the overpowering impulse to flee.

B
Y THE TIME
A
NNE
reached her attic room, she had a stitch in her side and was gasping for breath. She
slipped inside the room and closed the door, twisting the key in the lock with trembling fingers.

Pippa and Dickon had helped her install the lock before their last master had arrived. The three of them had laughingly celebrated their efforts, knowing all the while it would be a feeble defense against a powerful shoulder or a booted foot.

Anne pressed her ear to the door but heard no sign of pursuit. She sagged against it, going limp with relief. She had certainly never intended to end her evening in her employer’s arms. She had only her own carelessness to blame. She knew every cranny and nook of this house. If she had anticipated his pursuit, she could easily have eluded him.

She’d grown accustomed to men fleeing her company, not seeking it. She certainly hadn’t expected Lord Dravenwood to plunge headlong into the darkness, turning the hunter into the hunted.

She pushed herself away from the door. She’d left a candle burning on the washstand, and as she crossed the floor, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the looking glass that hung over it.

Mesmerized against her will, she drew closer to the mirror. She expected to see what she saw every morning when she arose—an ordinary face, not unpleasing, but certainly not worthy of praise or adulation. But tonight her breasts were rising and falling unsteadily beneath the plain, white linen
bodice of her nightdress. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed a soft rose, her lips slightly parted as if awaiting a lover’s kiss. She lifted her hands as if they belonged to someone else and raked her fingers through her braids, releasing her aching head from their pressure. Taming the thick mass was a constant struggle, usually requiring a wealth of pins that stabbed her scalp every time she turned her head. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in a rippling cloud, and she was left staring into the face of a stranger.

Her lips tightened. No, not a stranger at all but a face she knew only too well, a face she had hoped never to see again except as a distorted reflection in the eyes of those too foolish to recognize it had never been anything more than an illusion.