A Kiss in the Night Read Free Page B

shadow of a man who loomed large over his life. A darkness that always hung around him. This shadow became a cold, bitter wind he had to fight constantly against. This shadow was his brother.
    He felt the intimate probe of her eyes. Silvery, catlike, startling eyes. Beauty was considered blond, blue-eyed, dainty like a wildflower. She was the opposite. A steamy-eyed witch-child, sculpted with flesh and bone, made of earth and wind and fire.
    He felt a stab of raw desire as he stood there staring down. "Will you fight me, witch-child?"
    The question was asked with incongruent gentleness. For a moment she lost herself to the compelling lilt of his voice, French, aristocratic, deep, as his callused hands came to her slender shoulders. The touch of the large hands went through her like a shock. She drew a sharp breath, her eyes darting over his face with confusion. She closed her eyes a moment, and struggled to find her courage.
    She shook her head. Yet she asked, "Would it matter?"
    A serious question. She saw him search his conscience, and what he said next made her know he was heaven-sent. "Aye, it would matter." His hands caressed the sculpted muscle of her slim back, and he leaned over to breathe deeply. The scent of lilacs and smoke was in the dark hair. "I would not want to hurt you. I don't think I could, and yet, my sweet temptress, and yet..."
    He never finished. He swung her up in the air as if she were made of straw, and carried her to a mossy bank near the stream. Bracing her back with his arm, he lowered her against the green backdrop and came partially over her.
    The press of their bodies brought on a jolt that left them both speechless. He closed his eyes, struggling up through the sweet assault on his senses. Raw, hot sensations washed over them, so many millennia removed from the Abbey of Sauvage, the ravages of the flames, or the bloodied battle fought and won there. So many millennia removed from anything on earth.
    She stared up in astonishment, waiting for him to explain this magic. Excitement rushed through her veins like a potent fuel, pumped by her pounding heart and quick breaths. He brought her hands above her head and held them there with one of his own. She struggled to get enough air, and each intake of breath riveted her consciousness to the naked muscle and heat against her, the press of her breasts against his bare chest, his hard shaft against her side, his thigh pressed between hers.
    His breath came hard and fast, too. His hair fell in a riot of curls around his handsome face. For a moment she thought he struggled with the same astonishment, but no, his pause was a desperate measure to catch the wild race of his desire. His struggle only grew as he drank the sight of her dark hair spread over the moss, studied the bewitching eyes and the beckoning of her parted lips, and felt the thrust of her breasts against his chest, a sudden flood of heat as she shifted beneath his weight.
    She felt a tingling rush along the nerves of her arms and a tightening in the tips of her breasts, a hot swelling deep inside. She went very still as he watched her. Her shock was so virginal, he asked huskily as his lips grazed hers, "You handle like a virgin, my witch-child. Tell me you're not."
    The question made her panic. She closed her eyes and tried to shake her head.
    "Are you?" he asked again as he let his lips graze her mouth, gently biting her lower lip. Their breath mingled, and he closed his eyes, lost in the incredible sweetness of her scent. "Or were you sent by the heavens as an undeserved reward for my questionable service?"
    She gasped with the shivers this caused. "Aye," she said in a whisper, "I was sent to you just as you were to me. You saved my life and I owe it to you now." She intended no melodrama; she meant every word. "I surrender my will; this humble gift is yours."
    He ignored the questions posed by the girl's perfect courtly French. He did not want to know who she was or how she came to be