Page 36 of The Soldier
“Oh, for shame, Devlin St. Just,” she scolded softly, rising and taking his hand to examine the blisters on his palm. “Come along, and no whining. I promise not to hurt you.”
Six
Well, damn. St. Just let Emmie lead him by the wrist upstairs into the bedroom she was using. She closed the door behind them without a thought, and it occurred to him in London, were he to be found being private with a lady in her bedroom, that lady would be his wife, or his intended, will she, nil she.
God bless Yorkshire, he silently concluded as Emmie rummaged in her wardrobe, for Emmie Farnum deserved better than the likes of him. She emerged with a silver tin and waved it at him.
“Shirt off,” she ordered, crossing her arms and waiting.
When he lifted an eyebrow, she just waved the tin again. “I’ve seen you without, my lord,” she reminded him, “and I am hardly a blushing debutante. You cannot put this on your own back, and Lord Amery is nowhere to be found, though you should send him to me when we’re done here.”
Slowly, he unbuttoned both waistcoat and shirt and shrugged out of them, all the while trying not to feel her gorgeous blue eyes taking the measure of him as he shed half his clothes.
“My lands.” Emmie drew in a breath. “I am going to scold Mortimer within an inch of his life. You are as red as an apple.”
“So be careful with me,” he said, prepared for something that both stank and stung to be applied to his skin.
“You should have been more careful with yourself,” Emmie scolded, moving around to the back of him. He heard her open the tin, then felt the softest dab of something cool right between his shoulder blades. Her fingers feathered over him as gently as a breeze, spreading the salve, and leaving a tingling relief wherever she touched. Delicate scents of rosemary and lavender wafted to him as Emmie worked down his back then over his shoulders and down his arms.
“Am I hurting you?”
Killing me.
“Not at all,” he managed. But the blood pooling in his groin argued that a woman’s bare hands were gliding over him, touching him with gentle concern, in places he hadn’t been touched in so terribly long.
“Turn around, my lord. Sit on the bed and close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you, because you will be most uncomfortable if this gets into them.”
He did as bid, glad for the chance to sit and disguise the evidence of his unruly imagination. Her fingers moved over his throat, her touch both soothing and arousing.
“You should keep your shirt off as much as possible today,” she said, moving her hands down over his collarbones. “My heavens you’ve a powerful lot of muscle for an idle lord.” She might have been commenting on Mortimer’s team, so dispassionate was her tone, but her fingers were gliding over his chest, and he had to open his eyes.
She was leaning close, studying him as she spread more salve on his sunburned skin. Through the rosemary and lavender came the flowery scent of her, and he inhaled deeply.
“Are you all right?” Her thumb brushed innocently over his nipple, and he had all he could do not to shoot off the bed. Instead, he snatched the tin from her, set it on the night table, and closed his eyes again.
“Is it stinging? It isn’t supposed to, but you are well and truly sunburned,” she said, concern in every word.
“Emmie…” He opened his eyes and found her peering down at him. He dared not stand lest the havoc in his breeches become apparent. She laid a hand on his bare shoulder, her fingers cool and gentle.
“Being in the sun too long…” she began, but then he did stand and swooped his mouth down to cover hers. She gave a startled little “mmm” but did not resist.
Stop, stop, stop, stop…His common sense was trying to signal his body, but two years of abstinence had sent self-control from the stables at an exuberant dead run. This was Emmie, he tried to remind himself, a woman under his protection, a woman in his employ…
A woman in his arms, who was arching into him with the sweetest sense of yearning to her. She made little noises, like she was tasting something delicious as her arms stole around his waist and her body pressed against his. God above, she was lush. He anchored her to him, heedless that his erection was evident against her stomach. If she comprehended what it was, she certainly wasn’t put off by it.
He heard himself growl as he tightened his hold, then forced himself to slow down, to gentle his kiss and treat the woman like the long-awaited delicacy she was.
His tongue seamed her lips slowly, giving her time to comprehend what he asked, before she sighed into his mouth and opened for him. He sampled carefully, teasing and tasting the orange and clove flavor of her, then easing back and nibbling his way from her chin to the ear.
“Kiss me, Emmie,” he breathed against her neck. “Don’t think, just kiss me.”
Another small sound of pleasure, and this time her mouth found his. Tentatively, sweetly, she tasted his lips with her tongue, and he had to force himself not to toss her on the bed and fall upon her like a beast.
“More,” he urged, cradling the back of her head with his hand. Her tongue met his again, and he felt her shock when he plundered past her lips and went exploring.
Heat, want, arousal, pleasure, and need coursed through his veins as she capitulated utterly to his kiss. Emmie’s hands were questing up and down his back, caressing, soothing, exploring so gently. She cuddled up against him like he was her favorite place to be, and the ache in his loins threatened to obliterate reason.
But it did not obliterate hearing.
