Scandal's Bride Read Free Page B

steamed before her face. Through the clearing wisps, she spied—the very last thing she expected to see—a pair of large, black, highly polished Hessians, directly in her path. She tried to stop; her soles found no grip on the icy path—her momentum sent her skidding on. She tried to flail her arms; they were trapped beneath her cloak. On a gasp, she looked up, just as she collided with the owner of the boots.
    The impact knocked the air from her lungs; for one instant, she was sure she’d hit a tree. But her nose buried itself in a soft cravat, mid-chest, just above the V of a silk waistcoat. His chin passed above her head; her scalp prickled as long hairs were gently brushed. And arms like steel slowly closed about her.
    Instinct awoke in a flustered rush; raising her hands, she pushed against his chest.
    Her feet slipped, then slid.
    She gasped again—and clutched wildly instead of pushing. The steely arms tightened, and suddenly only her toes touched the snow. Catriona dragged in a breath—one too shallow to steady her whirling head. Her lungs had seized; her senses skittered wildly, informing her, in breathless detail, that she was pressed, breast to thigh, against a man.
    Not just any man—one with a body like warm, flexing steel. She had to lean back to look into his face.
    Blue, blue eyes met hers.
    Catriona stilled; she stared. Then she blinked. It took half a second to check—arrogant mien, decisive chin—it was he.
    Narrowing her eyes, she fixed them on his; if The Lady had made no mistake, then it behooved her to begin as she meant to go on. “Put me down.”
    She’d learned the knack of commanding obedience at her mother’s knee; her simple words held echoes of authority, undertones of compulsion.
    He heard them; he angled his head, one black brow rising, then the ends of his long lips lifted. “In a minute.”
    It was her turn to listen and hear the intent in his deep purr. Her eyes flew wide.
    â€œBut first . . .”
    If she’d been able to think, she’d have screamed, but the shock of his touch, the intimate warmth of his palm as he framed her face, distracted her. His lips completed the conquest—they swooped, arrogantly confident, and settled over hers.
    The first contact stunned her; she ceased to breathe. The very concept of breathing drifted from her mind as his lips moved lazily on hers. They were neither warm nor cool, yet heat lingered in their touch. They pressed close, then eased, sipped, supped, then returned. Firm and demanding, they impinged on her senses, reaching deep, stirring her.
    She stirred in his encirling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat surrounded her—even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her, then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.
    And couldn’t. She was facing ignominious defeat—with not a clue of what followed—when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip; one thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.
    Her jaw eased; her lips parted.
    He entered.
    The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seductively physical need. And hold hard against the temptation that streaked through her.
    Even while he took arrogance to new heights.
    She hadn’t thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely, imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident, he angled his head and tasted her—languorously, unhurriedly—as if he had all the time in the world.
    Then he settled to play.
    To advance and retreat, to artfully