Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine Read Free Page B

breaths ripple through her warm, generously shaped body. With every exhale, her breasts pillowed against his chest, and as she tried to settle her balance on the uneven ground, her hip inadvertently stroked his thigh. There was still no protest from her lips; instead, a curious light quickened in the sultry hazel depths of her unblinking gaze.
    Was the lady ready for a little practice to go along with the theory she studied in her wicked book?
    In that case, he would readily oblige. Lazarus ruthlessly cast aside all previous intentions of chivalry, recently acquired along with his new set of clothes, and reverted once more to the basic actions of a young man who’d learned most of his life lessons in the dark alleys and back streets of London.
    His mouth sought hers, claiming it with neither mercy nor apology. Somewhere a bird sang, and his skipping pulse soared along with those high notes. She tasted as sweet as she looked, and although this kiss was bartered, it was neither coldly offered nor resentfully given. It was tentative but surprisingly gracious. She bestowed it like a blessing. Or a forgiveness.
    How could she know, yet, she had anything to forgive him for?
    He was calmed by it, briefly humbled even. And then he wanted more.
    The delightful, teasing friction of her body against his had whetted Lazarus Kane’s appetite. He let his tongue slip between her lips, distracting her while he released her small hand and slid his arm around her waist to pull her more securely against him. He parted his feet for balance, ran his splayed hand along her spine, and let his tongue delve deeper. She shivered. Her lashes lowered, trembling against her cheek. Dappled sunlight fell through the trees gently to dust the side of her face with verdigris and copper. When he felt her tongue touch his, growing bolder, he wanted to laugh, the joy taking him by surprise. His kiss turned demanding, his mouth slanted to hers, and his hand anchored at the nape of her neck.
    And still he wanted more.
    But she, it seemed, had given enough. He felt her pulling back. As much as he wanted to keep her, he knew better. For now, they were obliged to be civilized.
    She stepped back, took her book from his hand, and ran off, disappearing into the covert of trees.
    Lazarus laid one hand to his heart and felt the little bump beside it.
    His angel was even more than he could have hoped for, and certainly more than he deserved. Each new day was already a precious gift not to be taken for granted.
    His endangered heart pounded with a renewed burst of enthusiasm. Lazarus returned to where he’d left his box of belongings, heaved it up onto his shoulder, and continued on his way.
    ***
    His destination lay just on the border of the village, on rising ground from which he could see over the thatched rooftops and chimneys of Sydney Dovedale. In the opposite direction stood a somewhat forbidding stone fortress, moss clad and unprepossessing. His first impression, formed as he stared up at the dark, shadowy structure in the distance, was of a ruin, uninhabited and abandoned, so he turned his eyes instead to the house immediately before him. There, wedged into the flint-and-pebble wall by the gate, a carved sign proclaimed the name of the farmhouse—Souls Dryft.
    He set down his box and pushed on the tall iron bars of the gate. As he lifted the latch, there was a groan of despair, and the gate dropped from the rusted top hinge. The bottom opposite corner fell to the ground with a thud, nestling in a deep ridge carved in the dirt, where it obviously felt at home, for it stubbornly refused to move farther. He struggled a while then made up his mind to find another route.
    He climbed speedily up the rattling, protesting bars and leapt down into the yard. His mind, which was just as nimble as his body, had already taken note of the house’s potential. His smile remained unchallenged, even as he found the shutters at the windows rotted and wormholed, the