Too Wicked to Tame (15 page)

“If she had her way?” He paused and gave her a wry look. “Until you’re with child.”

Shocked at his outrageous words, and horrified at the lurid images that popped unbidden into her head, she dropped her gaze to her hands, turning them over and examining her cuticles. After a moment she looked up to find his gaze, steady and relentless as ever, fixed on her.

His lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “We haven’t any food,” he reminded and glanced at the rack of wine nearest to him. “But I suppose we won’t perish of thirst.” He tapped one bottle.

“Perhaps we should drink the Haute-Brion?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat. “A fine claret, I’m told.”

“Would serve the old harridan right.”

Portia smiled, imagining Lady Moreton’s reaction when she discovered her precious claret consumed.

Silence fell between them, awkward and tense following their moment of levity. Still smiling, Portia studied her hands again.

“God, you’re lovely when you smile.”

Portia whipped her gaze back to his, her heart lurching to her throat. “
I—I
beg your pardon?”

Was that her voice? Small and tremulous as a feather drifting on a breeze?

“You’re lovely when you smile,” he repeated.

He reached out. One blunt-tipped finger stroked her cheek, close to her quivering lips. “You have a dimple here.” His finger moved, drifting a hairsbreadth over her mouth. So close but not touching. His finger came down on the other side of her face, soft as a butterfly landing on a petal. “And here.” His gaze locked with hers. “They only come out when you smile.”

She moistened her lips, her stomach churning at his seductive words, his gentle touch. The man was dangerous, indeed. He captivated her with disturbing ease. She trembled. Partly from how he made her feel. Partly from how much more he could make her feel if she let him. If he let himself. She would be nothing more than clay beneath his expert hands.

His finger lingered on her face, brushing one dimple, liquefying her bones with the heat of his touch. She stepped back, pulling her face from his hand, from his tempting heat. Straightening her spine, she asked again, “How long do you think she’ll keep us down here?”

His hand fell to his side and he stared at her in brooding silence before answering. “I’m sure she has no wish to starve us. She’ll release us for dinner.”

Dinner? Panic seized her heart, its cold fingers squeezing. How could she abide being locked away with him for a full day?

“Of course,” she replied, doing her best to appear composed. “Dinner.” Interlacing her fingers before her, she paced a short path, making certain to remain within the circle of light. “I have to commend your grandmother for her initiative.” She tried for a laugh but failed miserably.

Twisting her fingers, she went on to say, “She could certainly teach my grandmother a trick or two.”

Heath lowered himself, his boots scraping the ground as he stretched out his long legs in front of him. “Perhaps she’s not yet desperate enough.”

Not desperate enough? Portia paused and let the possibility sink in. The nagging, the pressure, the criticisms that wounded like the slice of a blade. And of course there was her ultimatum.

“Hard to fathom Grandmother as anything less than desperate. She has threatened to choose a husband for me this Season if I do not.”

Bending one knee, he propped his arm over it and studied her beneath hooded eyes. “And yet you’re here.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Difficult to make a match if no one proposes.”

“True,” he murmured, “but aren’t you worried who your grandmother will choose for you?”

“I’ll deal with that when the time comes. You’d be surprised how easy it is to chase off a would-be-husband.”

“You’re experienced in that endeavor, I gather?”

“Quite.”

He studied her in mulling silence and she wished she knew his thoughts. “Well, don’t expect a peaceful stay here.” He waved a hand about them in demonstration. “Grandmother won’t stop at this.”

Portia shook her head, grumbling, “Why don’t you give her what she wants and marry someone?” It weren’t as if gentlemen lost anything by marrying. He would still keep his freedom, could pursue his dreams with no one interfering.

He narrowed his eyes on her and she hastily assured, “Not me.”

“I’ll never marry.”

“The madness,” she concluded.

He stared, saying nothing.

A certain suspicion filled her, one that she couldn’t shake. Angling her head, she asked, “You still wouldn’t marry, would you?”

She nodded, convinced she had discovered the truth. “You’re afraid of marriage.”

He stiffened where he sat, his expression appalled. “Afraid?”

“There’s no shame admitting it. I’m afraid of marriage,” she announced in a flat voice.

“Indeed?” he asked.

“I’ve no interest in granting a man total power over me. The day a woman says ‘I do,’ she surrenders herself. I have precious little freedom as it is. I’m not about to hand it over.”

“You can’t be serious,” he murmured, his eyes raking her from head to toe as if he had never quite seen her before.

“Indeed I am.” She quickened her pacing. “Husbands dictate where their wives go, how they dress, what they read, eat, topics they may discuss.” Stopping, she gave a shuddering shrug. “No, thank you.”

He laughed, the sound chafing simply because it mocked her greatest fear. “You’ve described a marriage the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

Portia halted and settled her hands on her hips. “No? Well, I’ve seen it.”

“Have you now?” His laugh quieted. “You think a man would dare run roughshod over you?

Surely you know yourself better than that.” His amused eyes flitted over her, measuring. “You’d likely strangle the poor fool.”

She sniffed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt, unsure whether to feel complimented.

“I simply do not plan on ever putting myself in the position where I must wrangle my freedom from a husband.”

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze probing. “Your parents’ marriage, I take it?”

She shrugged as if it were of little account. “My mother could scarcely breathe without his permission.”

Heath tapped his knee thoughtfully.

Before he could probe further, she forged ahead, saying, “Why don’t you wed? Marriage is no hardship for a gentleman. No one says you must have children.”

“A name only marriage to silence my grandmother? Is that what you’re suggesting?” he demanded, a hard glint entering his eyes.

“Precisely.”

“I don’t know many ladies who would agree to that kind of marriage.”

Portia fluttered a hand. “Oh, I’m sure they exist.”

“Are you volunteering for the position?”

Her hand dropped to her side. Their eyes clashed. Something in the air shifted, thickened.

Tension swelled between them. She crossed her arms over her chest, dropped them and then crossed them again. “Of course not,” she answered in a voice she hardly recognized as her own.

“Good. Because it would never work. Not with you, at any rate.” He slid those smoke-colored eyes over her again—a slow, languorous perusal that made her limbs feel as unsteady as jam.

Lifting her chin, she muttered, “Of course not. You would be the controlling type of husband I precisely wish to avoid.”

Throughout their conversation, the light had grown dimmer, his face more deeply cast in shadow. Portia glanced at the candle and bit her lip, noticing with some alarm that it was close to dying.

His husky voice rolled over her like the drag of silk across her flesh. “Not scared of the dark are you?”

“No,” she replied, the word falling hard and fast from her mouth. No. She wasn’t scared of the dark. Merely of being alone in the dark with him.

He knocked the ground with his knuckles, the sound jarring her from her thoughts. “Hard as a rock and cold as ice. I wouldn’t mind settling myself into something soft.”

Heat washed over her, scorching her face all the way to her hairline, and she wondered if he were aware of his innuendo, if he meant to scandalize her. He looked her over, his blistering gaze stripping her bare.

Of course he knew, the wicked man.

Nervous, her fingers moved to toy with the tiny rosettes fringing the scooped neckline of her dress.

His eyes followed the gesture, the gray deepening to slate, the precise color she had seen last night, moments before he kissed her, ravaging her mouth. Ears burning, she dropped her hand from her bodice, fisting the skirt of her dress as if it were a lifeline capable of saving her from all he stirred inside her.

He looked away, to the steps, his expression echoing the desperation wringing her heart. His head fell back on the rack behind him, rattling the bottles.

She studied him in the flickering glow of light.

“Better settle in,” he muttered. “The light’s almost out.”

“Perhaps we should try pounding on the door?”

“No one will come.” He gestured at the steps. “But if you’d like to try, by all means.”

Expelling a deep breath, she lowered herself to the ground a few inches from his side. In a cellar where all manner of vermin likely resided, she didn’t wish to stray too far from him.

Settled beside him, she watched the sputtering flame in silence, both dreading and eager for the coming darkness. Eager for her gaze to cease wandering to his long, muscled legs splayed before them on the floor, to the broad hand with its long, blunt-tipped fingers that rested atop his muscled thigh. At least she would be free of the sight of him, free of the temptation to turn and feast on the mouth that had plundered hers just last night.

The flame died, a whisper on the air, plunging them into gloom with such suddenness that a gasp spilled from her lips.

Darkness enveloped them—a blackened tomb sealing them in from the rest of the world. Portia filled her lungs with the stale air, a strange sense of detachment stealing over her. She felt as though she were imprisoned in a dream—a dark, dreamless slumber.

“Portia? Are you all right?” Heath’s disembodied voice cut through the blackness, thrumming over the air like the vibrating key on a harpsichord.

Her senses sprang into aching, singing alertness at that deep voice so near her ear.

“Fine.” Her voice sounded strangled, a mere croak, and she closed her eyes. At least she thought she closed her eyes. Blackness swirled around her, so thick and tangible she couldn’t tell whether her eyes were open or shut.

A violent shiver rippled over her, leaving goose bumps in its wake. She brought her hands up to rub her bare arms briskly. Her fingers caught on one of the bottles behind her, rattling it noisily on the rack, jangling her already taut nerves.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Just a bit cold.”

He shifted beside her, his every sound heightened—the rustle of clothing, the slide of his big body over the dirt-packed floor, the warm puff of his breath as he drew closer, stirring the wisps of hair that had fallen loose and tickled her throat.

His body radiated warmth beside her. So close. Her fingers twitched at her sides, tempted to reach out and discover precisely how close. His smell filled her nostrils—earth, wind, and man.

The scent of him imparted energy to the stale air, filling her with a restless vigor that had her pressing her thighs together.

The rustle of his clothing grew louder. “Here. Take my jacket.” The low growl of his voice sounded directly in her ear and made her jump.

She hesitated, unwilling to extend her hand. No telling what she might brush in the darkness.

He sighed impatiently. “Take it.”

She stretched out her hand, groping air.

Their hands touched, collided, and her heart constricted.

She jerked back, stung. He snatched hold of her clumsy fingers, the rough pads of his fingers sliding the length of hers. His touch felt warm, sure—reverent as a lover.

Time suspended. Her mouth dried. Her breasts tightened. She couldn’t draw air as he held on to her hands. Her satin to his steel. Finally he released her, shoving his jacket in her hands.

His voice scratched the air, rough, strained. “Put it on.”

She leaned forward and slipped his jacket over her shoulders. Her nostrils flared, the scent of him encircling her. Settling back against the rack, she willed the tension to ease from her rigid body.

Suddenly, a scrabbling noise sounded nearby.

She stiffened. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He didn’t sound very convinced. The sound grew closer, until she was quite certain she knew it for what it was—nails scurrying over ground.

“Rats,” she cried, flinging herself against him. He grunted from the force of her body.

Embarrassment burned her cheeks. Still, she was not about to disentangle herself from his protective bulk with rats lurking nearby. She didn’t care how cowardly she looked.

His hands flexed on her arms, burning through his jacket and the capped sleeves of her gown and into her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed close. That disembodied voice floated over her, a broken whisper that added to the unreality of the moment. “Portia.”

She wet her lips and opened her mouth. No sound emerged. Instead, she snuggled deeper against him, her hand snaking around his broad shoulder, brushing his hair. She no longer knew or cared what had sent her vaulting into his arms. Unable to resist, she stroked the gossamer strands. In her mind she saw the dark hair sifting through her pale fingers.

With a muttered curse, he gripped her waist and lifted her so that she straddled him. Her skirts pooled around her knees. Shocked at the intimate position, she dropped her hands to his hard chest, ready to push away.

Then he said her name. “Portia.” A hoarse plea—a benediction she couldn’t deny. Didn’t want to.

Her hands ceased pushing.

Darkness beguiled her, tempting her to forget what was real. Who he was. Who she was. And why they had no business sitting together touching each other like this. It had to be the darkness.

It couldn’t be the man himself who held such power over her.

Swallowing, she flexed her fingers against the soft lawn of his shirt, her hands overflowing with the hard sensation of him. His chest muscles danced beneath her palms and her belly fluttered.