Lisbon: Richard and Rose, Book 8 (32 page)

“I love a challenge,” he murmured, and lowered his head.

The first touch of his lips against hers paralyzed her. Recognition—of what she still didn’t know—shot between them and she opened her mouth to protest, but he used it to his advantage and licked her lips before he slid his tongue into her mouth.

Now shock held her rigid. Nobody had ever kissed her like this. She hadn’t imagined it possible. She’d seen the caricatures in the shops with their sometimes explicit content, watched a man fondling a whore, seen mercenary transactions take place in the street—she’d thought herself reasonably au fait with sexual matters, for a virgin.

She’d been wrong. She knew that watching and experiencing were two different things but had never known it could be so devastatingly different. The intimacy floored her, and she could do nothing other than reach out for something to steady herself.

The memory of that other kiss—that disgusting, slobbering kiss George Barber had forced on her—returned in full measure. This didn’t compare, couldn’t. She wanted to press closer to Elston, not jerk away, put as much distance between them as she could. Nothing like that. If anything had told her that she couldn’t go ahead with marriage to George Barber, this did.

Corin cupped the back of her head as her hand made contact with his velvet-clad arm. She clutched it, praying for control as he took his time exploring her mouth, caressing her with soft strokes that made her heat up right down to the forbidden area between her thighs. He held her safe, didn’t move his hands or try to unfasten her clothing. One arm curved around her waist, the other over her wig. She wanted his hands under it, in her hair, cupping her head intimately. One of the strings of her mask loosened.

She jerked back, her hand going to her only protection against discovery. “No, don’t!” Her voice was breathless, whispery, but at least it still worked. As did her common sense.

“I want to see you.” He sounded as out of breath as she did.

“No, you can’t.” She reached up and retied the one string he’d managed to undo. Luckily the other one still held firm. He’d dislodged her wig, and she pulled it back into place, but he must have seen that she was a brunette.

“Why not? Will I know you?”

Having regained her composure, enough to confront him anyway, she shook her head. “It’s highly doubtful. But you might see me somewhere else.”

“And you’ve lost that accent. I knew you’d assumed it, but there’s still a tinge left. Are you a Londoner?”

Born and bred. “I’ve visited London a lot,” she said, hoping desperately to put him off the scent. She had to get out of here before he guessed more. Before he had her out of her clothes and spread out on the bed for his pleasure. How could she have been so stupid?

But she had to pass him to get to the door, and he caught her skirts. “A challenge, sweet Lucia. Just between us.”

“Why?”

“Because of the danger. Because you want a bit of excitement in your life.” If only he knew she’d have more excitement than she’d ever wanted soon. But she appreciated that he didn’t threaten her. He could have her barred from this house with very little trouble, but he hadn’t done it.

She turned around, willing at least to listen, but keeping some distance between them, as much as this small room would allow. He sat there in his splendid clothes looking every inch a prince. A wicked prince. He released his clutch on her skirt, and she resisted the urge to put her hand where his had just been, to touch the residual warmth. “Well?”

“Let me get to know you better. You intrigue me. Can you meet me, talk to me, with your mask and maquillage off? Can you look me in the face without your protection?”

“No.” She couldn’t do it. With no mask or makeup he’d see every expression on her face, and he’d know she was his for the taking, however hard she fought against it.

He leaned back, smiling. “A challenge, then. A bet, just between us, with no money at stake. If I recognize you and challenge you in public without your disguise, you promise to meet me at a place of my choice.”

“Why?”

He smiled. “I want you, sweet Lucia. I want to see your face while I’m making love to you.”

Before she could repress it an image flashed into her mind. Him, naked, admiring her naked body, kissing it, touching it. Oh she wanted it so much, but she couldn’t. Mustn’t. She held back her shock. Barely. “And what’s in it for me?”

His rich laugh filled the small space with joy. “I hope to give you pleasure as I’m taking it.”

She pulled out of his grasp, put her hand on the door latch. “I can’t.” Then she was gone, hurrying toward her servant, Frankie, as fast as she could without colliding with anyone or losing her foothold.

She’s learning to live. He’s forgotten how. Love will be their teacher.

Endless Heart

© 2012 Emma Lang

Heart, Book 3

Lettie Brown has lived in the shadow of violence. After escaping her brutal past, she’s finally at home in Forestville, Wyoming, where she would live a normal life—if she knew how. She’s content working at The Blue Plate and printing the town newspaper, if not happy. Then a stranger stumbles into her world and turns everything upside down.

Shane Murphy is a shell of a man, destroyed by the aftermath of the war, his personal tragedies and a penchant for cheap whiskey. When he lands, literally, on Lettie’s feet, his future takes a hard right turn.

As they fumble through a relationship that should not have been, a deep love takes root, one that cannot be denied. Together they discover a bond as unbreakable as steel and as undeniable as life itself—until the past rears its ugly head and threatens the happiness they’ve found in each other.

Warning: Get ready for a deep, intense love story that will leave you crying, cheering, shouting, squirming and sighing. Prepare for a hero who needs to be held, a heroine who needs to be loved, and a story that needs to be told.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Endless Heart:

The wagon was ready and waiting outside the restaurant. The rig and the horses had been rented from the livery in town, costing the Gundersons money. Yet she knew others in town had contributed some, asking for supplies of their own. Lettie had a hefty list of goods to purchase, and she hoped the store in Benson had everything she needed.

Without waiting for assistance, she climbed into the wagon and settled onto the seat. The wood creaked and popped as Shane hoisted himself up beside her. He didn’t say a thing, but his thigh settled inches from hers. Feeling petty but unable to help herself, she pulled her skirt closer so it didn’t touch him.

What was wrong with her? He was a seemingly good man, who for some unknown reason found her attractive, and she pushed him away. It wasn’t logical, and she could hardly explain it to herself. Here they sat, uncomfortable and out of sorts, barely speaking. It seemed like a lifetime ago she’d bathed his body and they’d kissed. In the days since then, she had dreamed of making love with him.

A twister roared through her, tying her up into tight little knots she couldn’t possibly undo. Sitting there was as uncomfortable as she’d expected, even more so. She counted each clop of the horses’ hooves as each second ticked by. It helped pass the time and gave her something to do besides be silent and awkward.

By the time she reached two thousand four hundred and thirty, she was gritting her teeth. She could swear Shane was deliberately inching closer to her. The metal handle on the seat was currently digging into her hip.

At six thousand two hundred and fifty, she gave up counting entirely. Her hip was throbbing, she had to pee and she had swallowed a bug. It was time to stop and rest for a few minutes.

“Stop the wagon.”

“Huh?” He turned to her, as though he had been daydreaming about anything but sitting beside her on a wagon.

“Stop. The. Wagon. I need to, ah, use the necessary.” Lettie refused to say please. That was not in her vocabulary anymore when she spoke to men, any man.

“Oh, sure thing. I could stretch my legs too after the last couple hours.”

“A couple hours? It’s only been a couple hours?” She punched him in the arm.

“Ow.” He pulled the wagon to a stop in a grassy area and set the brake. As he rubbed the spot where she’d punched him, he scowled at her from under the brim of his borrowed flat-brimmed brown hat. “Why did you hit me?”

Lettie stared, horrified by the fact she had punched him. The man had been beaten nearly to death, and she knew very well how much fists hurt, far longer than the bruises lasted. Yet she had deliberately hit him.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. When he opened his mouth to respond, she turned and leapt off the wagon. She landed hard on her right ankle, which then throbbed as she tottered off to the nearby bushes to relieve herself.

Lettie was never this out of sorts. She felt itchy, as though she could jump out of her skin any minute. As she found a suitable bush, she pulled up her skirt and did what she needed to. She never forgot for a second that Shane was close enough to hear her urinate. It was another strange thing about a strange day.

By the time she cleaned herself up and straightened her clothes, she had calmed down sufficiently to return to the wagon. Her swollen ankle complained with each step, and her boot was too tight. The day kept getting worse.

Shane leaned against the side of the wagon, his feet crossed at the ankle, a stalk of grass stuck between his teeth. He watched her approach, his face hidden by the shade of his hat so she couldn’t see his eyes. She didn’t like that one bit.

“What’s wrong with your foot?”

“Nothing. I twisted it a bit is all.” She went around the back of the wagon and reached into the basket for a bite to eat. With her stomach jumping like a passel of frogs, she didn’t need to get sick from having no food.

“Is there enough in there for me?”

“No.”

“You sure are being ornery, Lettie.” Shane wasn’t accusatory, but he was annoying.

“Then you know the real me.” She found a ham biscuit and turned her back to him. No need to flaunt the food at him—she wasn’t that mean. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to look at him. Or at least that was what she told herself.

“No, but I’m waiting to meet her.” Shane’s response made her pause in mid-motion.

She swung around and speared him with a glare. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged. “Just that. You don’t let anyone see you, Lettie.”

His words hit her square between the eyes. It was the truth, of course, but painful nonetheless. She managed not to spit out the bite in her mouth that had turned to ash on her tongue. Lettie swallowed what she could to save herself from looking foolish. Her hands shook with anger.

A little voice deep inside told her it was fear.

“That’s none of your business, Mr. Murphy. You don’t mean anything to me.”

“I know that.”

“You are a drunk, a stranger who puked on my shoes and nothing more.”

“I know that.”

She was within a foot of him, her sharp words whipping through the air like knives. He didn’t flinch or move as she beat him with her verbal fury. Her chest heaved as she struggled for breath, overwhelmed and out of control.

“You are here out of pity. Marta and Pieter felt sorry for you. You aren’t part of our family and you never will be.” Her mouth fairly burned with the viciousness of her attack.

“I know that.”

“Stop saying that.” She thumped one fist on his chest, then the other. Soon she was punching him for all she was worth. Her throat burned, her eyes shed angry tears and she let loose a torrent of sobs that sounded more like a wounded animal than a woman.

Lettie lost all sense of time and self. She tumbled down into a dark, deep hole and huddled there. Strong arms surrounded her, keeping her from sinking any further. Soft crooning echoed in her ear while warm hands rubbed her back.

She couldn’t tell how much time had passed before she realized she was curled into a ball on someone’s lap. A male lap. Her arms and legs were stiff, her face hot and wet. She shifted, flush with embarrassment over her attack on him and her subsequent fit. Angeline was the only one who knew about them. Until now.

His arm tightened around her shoulders. “Sit.”

“I can’t sit on your lap, Shane.” She got to her feet, her legs trembling. When she took a step, she lost her balance and fell. He caught her in midair, his arm pushing the breath out of her lungs.

“I reckon you’ll sit now.” He flipped her around, and she found herself right back in his lap.

She should have gotten up, should have told him to let her go, but she didn’t. The sad truth was, he was comfortable, he smelled good and she didn’t want to move. Normally after losing control like that, she felt sick the rest of the day. Shane’s presence must have kept that sickness at bay because her stomach wasn’t hurting in the least.

“I, uh, I’m sorry about what I did.” The apology was like sawdust in her mouth, dry and tasteless.

“You don’t need to apologize.” His voice was honey smooth in her ear.