Lois Greiman Read Free

her own. Like the flip side of the princess she was, touchable and seductive and lovely. He took a step toward her. “And what of you, lass? Will you be there?”
    She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, but there was no longer fear in her expression. “I ’ave a small room at the Cup.”
    She was drawing him into her eyes, into her cleavage, into her world. “Is there room for two?” he asked, and, bending slightly, kissed her lips. They were full and soft and hopelessly alluring, but she drew back abruptly.
    “I told you the rumors was false,” she murmured, breathless now.
    Reaching up, he skimmed his knuckles along the sharp line of her jaw. She was amazing, incredible. So like Anna, and yet not. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
    Her back was braced against the canvas wall. “Like a princess?” she asked, skepticism heavy in her tone.
    “Yes.” Perhaps it would be wise to deny it, to tell her she was unique and special, but the blood was rushing to his head and other places, and he wasn’t thinking as clearly as he might. “Beautiful yet touchable.”
    “Unlike a princess.”
    “Yes.” He was mildly surprised by her insight, but not surprised enough to refrain from kissing her again.
    Placing a hand against his chest, she pushed him gently away. “I ’ave to go.”
    “No. Please.” He caught her arm. It was dim and cool in the shelter of the merchant’s stall. “Spend the night with me.” He was surprised by his own words. After all, he was no bumbling boy, hot-cheeked with the thought of his first woman, but she did things to him. Seductive, darkling things.
    Her expression was tense now, her eyes sharply focused on his face. “Because she won’t.”
    “What?”
    “Your princess,” she said. “She won’t sleep with you. But of course I will, since I’m not ’ighborn.”
    He skimmed his fingers down the fine slope of her throat. “Believe me, lass, I am hardly in a position to look down upon those of your station.”
    “Truly?” Did she bat her eyes at him? “’Tis good of y’, sir.” Was there sarcasm in her tone? For a moment he wished he had not drunk quite so much, that he was just a bit more discerning. “And you a…what?”
    Her skin was as soft as a dream.
    “Pardon?”
    “Your title,” she said. “What is it?”
    “Viscount.” Perhaps he made the statement with some pride, but at times it was still an amazement to him, the second son of a penniless baron who had come into wealth and power. “Come with me, lass,” he urged.
    She shook her head and scooted sideways, but he skimmedhis fingers around the back of her neck, stopping her movement. Her hair felt heavy and warm against his knuckles. Luxurious and soft and erotic. “You’ll not regret it,” he said.
    “Because you’re a viscount or because you’re rich?”
    He grinned, then kissed her again and felt her weaken. “There might be other reasons.”
    She pressed her palm to his chest again. Her hand felt ridiculously right there.
    “So you’re not offering me coin?” Perhaps there was tension in her voice, but he was past caring.
    “Is that what it would take, lass?”
    She definitely stiffened now. “Being a commoner don’t make me a ’ore.”
    “I didn’t say it did, lass. I simply…” Her bosom was rising and falling only inches from his face, distracting him. “Tell me what you want, and I will give it to you. We can both win.”
    “Really?” she breathed.
    He slipped his hand down her arm to her waist and very gently kissed the high portion of her breast. “Yes.”
    She jerked away, and in that moment he saw the wine bottle swing toward his head. Indeed, he almost had time to duck, but it caught him just above the ear. He stumbled sideways. The world spun crazily. Her pretty face tilted, then he hit the earth with a muffled thud, spilling darkness around him.
    “Sorry, Govner,” she said. “Looks like I’m the only winner ’ere today.”

Chapter 1
    Somershire,