Page 84 of Just Imagine
“And if we want any game on the table, you’ll have to put it there. I can’t spare time from the mill right now to do it myself.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, and she hated him for understanding her so well. She’d never have had this kind of freedom as Brandon’s wife. But then, Brandon would never have looked at her as Cain was now doing.
The bed loomed larger. Her shoulders knotted with tension. She studied the sparkling prisms hanging from the lamp globe on the table, then ran her eyes over the books he kept near the bed.
The bed.
Her eyes settled on his hands. Broad-palmed, with lean, blunt-tipped fingers. Hands that had stroked her body and cupped every curve. Fingers that had explored her . . .
“Bread?”
She jumped. He held out a piece of bread he hadn’t eaten.
“No. No, thank you.” She struggled to hold onto her composure. “Miss Dolly was upset today. Now that I don’t need a chaperone, she’s afraid you’ll send her away.” She regarded him stubbornly. “I told her you’d do no such thing. I said she could stay here as long as she likes.”
She waited for him to protest, but he merely shrugged. “I guess Miss Dolly’s ours now, whether we want her or not. Probably for the best. Since neither of us gives a damn about convention, she’ll keep us respectable.”
Kit shot up from the table. “Stop being so reasonable!”
“All right. Take off your clothes.”
“No. I—”
“You didn’t think a bath and food were all I’d want from you, did you?”
“If you expect more, you’ll have to force me.”
“Will I?” He leaned lazily back in the chair and scrutinized her. “Untie those laces. I want to watch you undress.”
She was shocked to feel a flush of excitement, and she struggled against it. “I’m going to bed. Alone.”
Even as Cain watched her march to the door, he could see the fight she was waging with herself. Now that she’d tasted passion, she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, but she’d fight him before she’d admit it.
She was so damned beautiful it made him hurt just looking at her. Was this weakness what his father had felt with his mother?
The thought chilled him. He’d meant to push Kit tonight until he sparked the temper that was always her undoing. He should have known she was too worthy an opponent to play so easily into his hands.
But it had been more than a desire to make her lose her temper that had prompted his churlish behavior. He’d wanted to inflict the small, humiliating wounds that would tell her how little he cared about her. Once she understood that, it would have been safe for him to take her in his arms and love her the way he wanted to.
He still intended to make love to her. But not the way he wanted it to be, not with tenderness and care. He wasn’t that foolish.
He rose and made his way through the sitting room to her bedroom. She’d locked the door against him, of course. He hadn’t expected anything else. With a little patience on his part, he could melt her resistance, but he didn’t feel patient, and the lock gave with a single kick.
She still wore her underclothes, although she’d loosened the ribbon on her chemise, and her hair hung loose, black silk trailing over ivory shoulders. Her nostrils flared. “Go away! I’m not feeling well.”
“You’ll feel better soon.” He swept her into his arms and carried her back to his bed, where she belonged.
“I won’t do this!”
He dumped her on the bed. She landed in a pile of petticoats and fury. “You’ll do whatever I tell you.”
“I’ll clean your boots, damn you, and I’ll bring your dinner. But that’s all.”
He spoke calmly against the raging of his blood. “Who are you angriest at? Me for forcing the issue? Or you for wanting me to force it?”
“I’m not— I don’t—”
“You do.”
