Strangers at Dawn (6 page)

His voice was husky. “You seem different tonight. I can’t explain it.” He laughed softly “I think I may have underestimated your appeal. Ah, Deirdre, don’t fight me.”

When his mouth took hers, she braced herself for violence, but he was gentle, and that amazed her. And as that brandy-flavored kiss lingered and the thought of Deirdre circled in her mind, it came to her that she’d taken a wrong turn. She’d been thinking of William when the stranger climbed in through her window, and her imagination had done the rest.

She went limp with relief and tried, weakly, to push him
off. When that didn’t work, she offered a passive resistance, neither participating in his embrace nor fighting it.

He went very still, then his head lifted. His features were indistinct, but she saw sculpted bones and the flash of white teeth as he smiled. “You’re not Deirdre,” he said.

“No.”

“I think I knew it from the first. I climbed in the wrong window, didn’t I?”

It was madness, but she found herself returning his smile. Her mind had already worked everything out. He wasn’t William’s emissary; he wasn’t a thief; he wasn’t going to rape her. He’d simply entered the wrong room, the room where he’d expected to find Deirdre, and instead he’d found her.

She should be ranting and raving at him for all the needless terror he’d put her through. She should be demanding that he get off her and leave her room at once. But the release of all the tension she’d been bottling inside her for weeks past left a curious void in its wake. She was far more inclined to weep into his shoulder than push him away.

“It seems we both made a mistake,” she said.

There was a smile in his voice. “I’m not so sure that coming to your room was a mistake. Deirdre can be a virago when she’s in a temper. She wouldn’t have missed with that bottle you tried to brain me with. I think that’s when I realized you weren’t Deirdre.”

“Is Deirdre your wife?”

“No, thank God!”

Once again she found herself returning his smile.

She liked him, she really liked him. He hadn’t threatened her or lost his temper when she’d attacked him. He was a powerful male animal, but he seemed as tame as a lamb. She hoped Deirdre knew how lucky she was. Such men were few and far between.

But they were becoming too cozy, too intimate. Or maybe it was the flickering darkness that held her in thrall.
Now that she wasn’t afraid of him, she was taking his impression through her senses, and all her senses were humming. But maybe, if she could see him clearly, she wouldn’t like him at all.

It was time to put a stop to this. She pushed against his shoulders with both hands and he complied at once. He relieved her of his weight, but he made no move to get off the bed.

She rose on her elbows and said, as graciously as she could manage, “Let’s forget this every happened, shall we? It was an honest mistake, and no one need ever know about it.”

“Except us.”

“Yes.”

She could feel it again, the weighing and assessing of every breath she took, every word she uttered, and she said quickly, “I think you’d better go.”

There was the oddest silence, then he said softly, “I don’t want to leave, and I don’t think it’s what you want either.”

A shiver passed over her, then another. She tried to muster a retort and failed miserably. He was right. She didn’t want him to leave. But that was insane. He was a stranger. A few minutes ago she’d been terrified of him. Then what had brought about this change in her?

She didn’t want to lie to him, so she asked a question instead. “What makes you think I don’t want you to leave?”

“Nothing. Everything. Put it down to intuition, but I sense …”

“What do you sense?”

He stroked her face with the pads of his fingers, a fleeting gesture that–she really must be insane—she wished he would prolong.
“I
sense,” he said gently, “that the lady is in need of a friend.”

Unexpected tears stung her eyes. She rarely cried, and especially not in front of anyone. She was too levelheaded.
The last time she’d cried was after her father’s funeral, and that was in the privacy of her own room.

This man really did possess an uncanny insight into how her mind worked. Even those who were close to her thought she was completely self-sufficient. She tried to be. No. She had to be.

She swallowed before she spoke, but her voice held a betraying quiver all the same. “That’s a strange thing to say when you don’t even know me.”

He edged closer and she inhaled the heady flavor of brandy. “Do I seem like a stranger to you? Truthfully, mind.”

“I … no.”

“How do I seem?”

She had to think about it before she put her thoughts into words. “You seem familiar.” In truth, he felt like a long-lost friend and that was absurd. “But that’s nonsense, of course. I’m sure we’ve never met.”

“So am I.” Gentle hands cupped her face. “I think you’ve bewitched me. What do you think? Tell me what you feel.”

She felt as though she’d had too much to drink. She felt as though she had lost her bearings. She felt as though there was nothing in the world but this small room and the comforting presence of the man beside her.

It must be the darkness, the flickering lights, the rain that was now lashing against the windowpanes that wrapped them in this warm cocoon of intimacy. It couldn’t last. It wouldn’t stand the cold light of day.

She gazed up at him, straining to see him in that dim light. His hair was blond and his mouth was full and sensual-that much she knew, but the rest was left to her imagination. His eyes would be kind, she decided, and crinkling at the corners; kind eyes and a kind smile to match his voice.

“Do you want me to stay?” His lips brushed her cheek. “Tell me!”

This was madness. She mustn’t say yes, but she couldn’t seem to say no.

When she didn’t respond, he took her lips again. She wasn’t afraid. Now that she’d taken his measure, she knew that she could stop him any time she wanted to. She sank back on the pillows and he followed her down, covering her with the upper part of his body. Even that didn’t frighten her. His mouth on hers was warm and gentle; she felt safe and sheltered in his arms.

He raised his lips an inch from hers. “Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t let it go too far. I just want to touch you. Just a little.”

One hand went up and brushed his face. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“I know.” He gave a throaty chuckle. “I think I’m the one who should be afraid.”

She was puzzling over his words when his lips settled on hers once more. This time his kiss was hot and tasted of passion. Her lips parted at the gentle urging of his. The hands that brushed over her from breast to waist to thigh were sweetly erotic. She felt as though she’d stepped into a gentle current that was taking her she knew not where.

He was going to make love to her.

It flashed into her mind that she wanted him to. She, Sara Carstairs, wanted this stranger to make love to her. She’d never felt this way before in her life, and doubted that she ever would again. But it would be a mistake to give into her feelings. She wasn’t herself. She was overwrought, weighed down by all her worries. And he was kind. That’s all it was. She would savor the strength of those sheltering arms for one moment more, then she would push him away.

Abruptly, the current she was floating in wasn’t so gentle. His kisses grew hotter, deeper, wetter. He was no longer coaxing her; he was devouring her. Heat spread along her
skin, making it unbearably sensitive to every brush of his hands. And those hands! There was magic in them. He knew just where to touch her to make her ache with wanting. She took one quick breath, then another, and suddenly she was fighting for every breath.

And she was drowning in pleasure.

She clutched at his shoulders to push him away and found herself clinging to him. As though she’d given him a signal, he covered her body with his, then adjusted his position so that she could feel the intimate press of his arousal through the fabric of his trousers. Her whole body contracted in shock.

His voice was hoarse and oddly bemused. “I must be out of my mind to put myself through this torture. But you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

She was dimly aware of his words, but the feel of that powerfully aroused body grinding into hers was unbearably erotic. She tried to fight off the sensations that were beginning to overwhelm her, but she’d left it too late. A frantic little cry tore from her throat, then she convulsed against him as her body exploded with pleasure.

When it was over and she was floating back to a more rational frame of mind, he kissed her throat, her eyes, her lips, her breasts. Still fully aroused, he pulled himself off her and rose from the bed.

The amusement had returned to his voice.
“I
think,” he said, “it’s about time we introduced ourselves. But first, let’s get a candle lit.”

His words instantly dispelled the pleasant languor that had settled over her. “No!” She hauled herself up. “Let’s not spoil things. This was … an enchantment. Yes, that’s what it was. Let’s not examine it in the cold light of day.” Then more softly, because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings, “Let’s say our good-byes now. Really, I think it’s better this way.”

She hardly recognized the voice that came to her out of
the darkness. The velvet had been replaced by steel. “Midsummer madness? I hardly think so. You want to run away. I can understand that. But I’m afraid I can’t permit it.”

This wasn’t the voice of her long-lost friend. Where was the charm? The gentleness? Sara sank back on her elbows as she heard flint strike on iron. Her tame lamb didn’t sound so tame any more.

And suddenly, she was very afraid.

Four

M
AX LIT TWO OF THE CANDLES ON THE
mantelpiece, then slowly turned to look at the woman who had streaked into his orbit with the velocity of a comet. Once, as a boy, he’d taken shelter under a tree that was struck by lightning, and he’d had a miraculous escape. He was hoping against hope that he would have a miraculous escape this time around as well.

She was picking up the pieces of broken glass that littered the floor. When she’d disposed of them in the wash basin, she turned to face him.

Her fiery dark hair fell about her shoulders in a torrent of tight waves; she had the kind of bones that were to be found on the sculptures of Greek deities. But it was her eyes that held him, dark and huge against the pallor of her skin.

Those dark eyes were wary, but they gazed at him directly all the same. He liked her directness. She wasn’t going to cry rape or try to evade her share of responsibility for what had happened between them. The question was-what exactly had happened between them?

He couldn’t put a name to it. All he would allow at this point was that he had no more intention of allowing this
woman to walk out of his life than he had of giving up ownership of the
Courier.

She’d noticed that her breasts were bared. No blushes or hysterics, Max noted with approval. Her eyes still on his, she began to do up the buttons on her bodice. It was just as well. Unsated desire was still a threat to his control, and they had a great deal to talk over.

He gave her a smile that was calculated to reassure her and melt her heart at the same time. “I’m really quite harmless,” he said.

The wariness in her eyes slowly dissipated. “Are you? You don’t look harmless to me. In fact, you look as though you’ve just come from the wars.”

God, he loved her voice—husky, prim, sinfully seductive-a study in contradictions, just like the lady herself. Her words registered, and he looked down at his clothes, saw that his shirt and neck cloth were spattered with blood, then looked up and grinned. “I was in a fight,” he said. “I lost.” He touched a hand to his face. “I’ve been told that I’ll have a black eye by morning.” He worked his jaw, and felt his nose. “It could have been worse.”

“Are you a Corinthian?”

He could tell by her tone that she didn’t think much of Corinthians. “I suppose I am. Why?”

“I have two brothers who are Corinthians, or aspiring Corinthians, and they’re always getting into fights.”

“This was a contest. There is a difference.”

She was weighing him up, taking in the cut of his garments, the tight fit of his trousers, her eyes lingering on his Hessian boots with their gold tassels.

He said humorously, “In case you’re too shy to ask, Weston of Bond Street is my tailor, and Schulz is my bootmaker.”

“So I gathered,” she answered coolly.

She’d summed him up as a fribble, a member of the dandy set. Max didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or
get on his high horse and tell her that in the newspaper world he was known as a force to be reckoned with.

She’d learn that he was a force to be reckoned with soon enough.

Trying to make the movement as unthreatening as possible, he took a step toward her. She didn’t flinch or bolt; she simply reached for her robe and slipped into it.

“Please,” he said, “sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”