Trust Me (45 page)

Then her mother had died and Rosalind had
vowed to escape. That day in London, near the docks, she’d been running from Mr
Boger. He had been escorting her to yet another wealthy gentleman, a merchant
prince who had paid for a few hours of gratification in his offices. She had
jumped from the carriage when it had stopped.

However, Mr Boger wasn’t opposed to using
physical violence. She’d often experienced the back of his hand—or his fist. He
had warned her that, if she ever ran from him, she’d better run well and hard
for, if he caught up to her, he would kill her.

That day, he’d come after her in a rage.
She’d been desperate. Running for her dear life. Knowing she couldn’t fail.
She’d recognised the sympathy on Thomas’ face that day. And the desire.

Well, she’d been dressed as the veriest of
doxies. Who could blame him for any mistaken assumptions?

She couldn’t bear to tell him the truth of
her past outright. She couldn’t take the chance of increasing the disdain he
must feel for her. What did the circumstances matter? She was just as unclean
no matter if the choice had truly been hers or not.

She’d been a whore. A dirty whore.Goodman
Thomas Marlowe. Goodman. As if the damned Puritans held some special innate
goodness others could never attain. Well, of course they saw it that way. Their
religion centred on the sanctimonious notion.

That religion, his devotion to its principles
and practice, made him completely unattainable to a woman like her. He always
held a wistful, removed quality in his eyes as if he were consumed by some long
remembered and perhaps deliciously savoured pain.

But tonight was very different.

His large, heavy-lidded, green eyes
glimmered with something earthy and very intimate and they were focused lower
than her neck.She glanced down.

Her nipples were pointed peaks against the
thin material. Her shift! No wonder he stared! Dizziness swept over her, her
head growing light, as if it might float away. Dear God. She was dressed only
in her shift. No matter how fascinating she found the contours of his powerful
body, how could she have forgotten, even for a moment? She ought to feel shame.
She ought to cover herself and run away and pretend this was all a dream.

He kept looking at her with those gorgeous
green eyes. Looking at her as if he would never stop. Could never stop.

Triumph at her power took her breath. Energy
surged through her body like fire blazing up a piece of kindling. Vitality that
couldn’t be suppressed. She resumed swaying, allowing her feminine instinct
complete possession.

He fixed his gaze on her lower body. His
eyes widened.

Darkened.

She knew the look of a man’s lust.

God, he was hers. Totally hers.

And this was likely her last chance ever to
know him like this. Maybe fate itself had created this moment of magical
moonlit opportunity.

For hours, she’d tossed in sweat-soaked
sheets. She’d told herself it was owing to the excessive heat, the worst
summer’s heat she had known in her life. As the clock had chimed midnight, wind
had rustled the curtains. The first cooling breeze New Balcombe had seen in
days had compelled her to come outdoors.

However, she couldn’t lie to herself. One
thing and one thing only had dominated her thoughts and kept her from sleeping.
In two weeks, Thomas would leave for Harvard College. He was leaving…The only
man she had ever wanted—yes, it must be admitted, the only man she had ever
loved—was about to walk out of her life. Maybe forever.

She would never know his kiss, his touch.

You could have him, here tonight,
if you wanted him. No one shall ever know…
A little seduction. That was all it would
take. She swayed her hips and shoulders in a motion as if she were a helpless
willow caught in a breeze. Submissive to the forces of nature.

Always before, in the theatre, she had
danced before a large audience. She’d never liked acting or dancing on stage.
She’d been so young when she started, terrified of making a misstep in front of
so many people. People who might pelt her with rotten fruit and worse. She
taken herself to a place deep inside and pretended that she danced alone. But
now she was not alone. She was exceedingly aware of Thomas Marlowe. Aware of
her effect on him. Her nipples drew tight, straining against the fabric of her
bodice as she moved. Wetness flowed from her sex. She’d known many men and it
hadn’t been her choice. But Thomas was her choice. She had wanted him for so
very long.

And tonight he wanted her too—this cold,
impossibly remote man wanted her.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. He
stood there, watching her as if he were transfixed.

She laughed, the low, throaty sound alien to
her ears. Dear heaven, what was he waiting on? It had taken far less for the
gentlemen in London to jump at her mother backstage.

Well, as a former actress, she certainly
knew how to play the seductress. “Goodman Marlowe.” She let her tongue caress
the name and paused, while holding his gaze steadily. “Always devout, always
good. Too good to take what he wants.”She cupped her breasts, lifting and
pushing them together, making them appear fuller. His focus of attention fell.
She laughed again.

His jaw tightened. “Mistress Abramson,
don’t.”

She drew her brows together in an expression
of exaggerated sympathy and shook her head slowly. “Too good to take what he
wants…even if his quarry wants to be taken?”

He jerked his stare back to her eyes, his
brows drawn tightly together. “You want that? To be taken here in the wood, like
a harlot?”

She flinched. The word stung. Yes, however
unwilling, she’d been a whore. Yet to hear that ugly word on his lips, directed
at her—
Leave. Just leave and pretend none of this ever happened.
His
gaze trailed down over her body.

 
Wait

His lips parted slightly and his features
sharpened into an expression of pure hunger. No. He hadn’t meant it. It was
bluster. He was defensive, deflecting blame. He was close to giving in. Power
surged through her once more. She purposely relaxed her face and curved her
lips into a smile. “Oh no, never a harlot. I am a creature of the wood. A
nymph.”

She laughed, turning away to resume her
dance.

He locked an iron arm around her waist and
he pulled her backwards. Roughly. Anticipation tingled through her like a thousand
stinging bees. She opened her mouth to cry out but her back made contact with
his body. A body as rock hard as she’d ever imagined. She couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t think.

He pressed his pelvis into her buttocks, and,
even through the fabric of his breeches, his erection felt hot and huge.

It felt divine.

Unable to stop herself, she wriggled against
him, revelling in the evidence of his arousal. He growled low, the sound
vibrating over her neck. Gooseflesh prickled down her spine. His large hand
splayed over her belly. “So the quarry wants to be taken?”

Through the thin fabric, he brushed his
fingertips over her stomach in a circular pattern. Not clumsy or rough, but
gentle, sensitive teasing. A beguilement.

She moaned, still helplessly writhing
against his straining heat. She had dreamt of this too many times, yet it was
nothing like she’d dreamt.
He
was nothing like she had dreamt. She
trembled and closed her eyes, surrendering. He stopped and put her from him.
Firmly. Decisively.

She swayed on her feet. What had happened?
Shaking with the shock of loss, she spun to see him walking towards the path in
the wood that led back to his property.

God, he was leaving.

Leaving.

About The Author

Natasha Blackthorne writes emotional,
evocative, erotic historical romance featuring non-traditional and
unconventional situations. Her stories are most frequently about the internal
journeys of the characters as they learn to open their hearts to love.

Her heroines are not perfect ladies. They
are wildflowers and wallflowers who enjoy flirting with the forbidden. Whether
they are bold or shy, her heroines’ strong desires and deep emotions drive the
plot and drive their heroes to the point of no return.

She is married to her own hero and they
share their life with a very quirky calico cat. She holds a BA in History and
loves to read, both romance and scholarly history, and listens to a variety of
music from classical to reggae. But mostly she is hard at work researching and
writing her next story.

Also From
Natasha Blackthorne

Grey’s
Lady

Historical Erotica Romance ~ Short Novella Approx.
36,000 Words ~ Prequel to
White Lace and Promises
Excerpt from
Grey’s Lady

©
Copyright
2011, 2013 Natasha Blackthorne

Chapter One

Philadelphia,
PA

Spring
1812

Grey couldn’t keep
his eyes off her. Philadelphian women were the cream of the Republic, but damn
if this one didn’t exceed all previous definitions. Curling wisps of hair escaped
from her indigo bonnet and trailed down her graceful neck. He’d never seen hair
that color, like champagne shimmering in the moonlight.

She looked up, giving
him his first full glance of her face. Sky-blue eyes, full of aching,
longing…and something else. Abject sadness.
Haunting.

Something caught in
his chest. Something reminiscent of pleurisy. Well, it wasn’t surprising.
Philadelphia air was notoriously insalubrious and the day was oppressively
damp. He blinked, glancing away. Was he losing his wits? “Haunting eyes?” What
romantic nonsense. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was getting a fever.

He glanced at his
pocket watch. God, time was crawling. He’d arranged this series of lectures to
entice potential investors, as last week in Boston had been most profitable.
However, today, Mason’s Bookstore was packed with adolescent boys who sat with
their mouths agape, listening to local captains recounting tales of
privateering glory. His own speech on how and why to invest in a voyage had
been met with yawns and bobbing heads. What a waste of an afternoon.

Shifting in his seat,
he sensed her gaze. Lingering. Burning into him. Against his will, he turned
back to her. Those eyes seemed to reach across the room, directly into him to
touch his emptiness.

What a fanciful
notion. His wits must be addled.

She didn’t drop her
gaze, as a modest woman might. Instead, she appraised him, boldly weighing and
measuring. A hint of tongue flirted along her pink lips. Her eyes smoldered as
if she’d read his every erotic longing and fantasy.

He shifted again,
trying to adjust for the heated blood rushing into his cock. The corners of her
mouth turned up and humor glinted in her eyes. Clearly, she found his interest
amusing. She found
him
amusing.

By God then, I’ll
have her beneath me, writhing and begging me fuck her.

Damned if he
wouldn’t.

The fervor of his
thoughts shocked him back to his senses. People were talking and laughing and
moving around. The lecture was over and he prepared to leave. Yet he found
himself standing at the windows, transfixed by the rain sheeting down.

“My goodness.” The
breathy feminine voice hit him low in his gut and he didn’t have to look to
know who spoke. Something primal pounded through his blood. An urge to turn,
grasp her by the back of her hair, and kiss her with such brute force she would
run.

Shaken, he took
several long, deep breaths before he trusted himself enough to turn to her.

“It’s so hard, isn’t
it?” she said, in breathy, bedchamber tones.

“Pardon me, madam?”

“The rain, it’s coming
down so hard today. Buckets and buckets full.” Her voice sounded sincere but
her eyes glimmered with mirth.

“Yes, it is.” He kept
his tone cool, polite.

“And everything is
getting so…” Again, she let her little pink tongue snake over her lip. “Wet.”

God.

He should have
laughed at such talk. Such a lack of finesse. However, she stood so close, his
arm almost touched her breast. So close, her tangy, sweet, gardenia-like scent
became intoxicating.

“Pardon me, madam,
but do you have some question about investing in a privateer venture?”

“Oh, no, they
answered all my questions in the lecture.”

“But how could they
have? You came in after the part about investing.”

“I didn’t really have
any particular questions. I come to all the lectures here.” She glanced at the
chalkboard on the opposite wall where the lecturers were posted. “You are Mr.
Asahel de Grijs Sexton of New York?”

“At your service.”