Page 10 of Keeping Kate
She had tasted a variety of kisses—dry, forceful, timid, mushy, and many nice enough. And none of those had ever touched off such a needfire within her. His were kisses to remember, to savor. His lips caressed hers, kneaded, sent shivers of pleasure through her—his breath warmed her, his touch excited her.
She wanted to melt in his arms and do all his will. Now his mouth took hers like a storm and she gave in, passion building, meeting his kiss with a fresh and maddening hunger. His hands traced over her arms, thumb grazed over the side of her breast, and even through layers of clothing, she responded, gasped. Each touch, each kiss felt perfect, beautiful, soothing.
Had she gone mad? Logic took over. She must go. Her cousin waited for her. Find the papers and flee this place. But she only wanted to succumb.
And suddenly, she knew that his kiss was feeding another hunger, that of her lonely soul. She had craved love for years, and this hinted so much at that—false though it was, she wanted more. And she could feel the wild pulse of desire not just in herself, but all through him, felt it echo in her. She trembled, moaned as his mouth found hers again in a kiss so deep and rich that a sense of joy poured through her, pure and astonishing and wholly unexpected.
“Dear God,” she whispered against his mouth, as he kissed her again, his fingers slipping over her modesty kerchief, over her stiffened bodice to touch the flesh beneath. She shivered at that exquisite butterfly touch. Anticipation pounded in her like a drum as his fingers swept, caressed.
Tightening her arms around his neck, she sighed as he drew her even closer, so that she felt the hard press of his body against hers.
She could not stay—but let herself savor a little more of this, sighing at his gentle touch and his body taut as iron. A moment more, she told herself, and she would run from here. Kissing him in fervent response, she nearly forgot what she was there to do.
Another kiss, one more, and she knew she was simply starved for this, for passion, for something deep and genuine. His lips traced over her cheek, his breath warmed her. She clutched at his red coat, that hateful red jacket, and let him do what he would. Never had she let a man touch her like this or go beyond a few kisses.
Katie Hell was a virgin, despite what was said of her. And her kinsmen would kill any man who took this much liberty with her, and yet she did not want this to end. She was the one captivated. Lost in that current, she met him with real hunger. Just a little longer, she promised herself, as his mouth traced along her jaw, her throat, as his hand slipped over her bodice to her waist, tracing over her skirts. As he pushed layers aside, she caught her breath and tucked her face against his shoulder.
This was sublime madness, she thought, heart pounding. She kissed his jaw, his beard raspy, then his lips found hers tenderly. She rolled against him, his plaid and her skirts bunching between them. He was hard and insistent through a cushion of fabrics, and she pulled at the plaid as his fingers tugged at her skirts.
She wanted to let him do what he would—this man, only this man. The wanton of the broadsheets, the fairy seductress, did not exist. No man had ever touched her like this. But now, she wanted it desperately. Now she understood what girls had whispered and speculated on in her school days. Now she began to understand what the poets said.
Then he pulled back, shaking his head. “Sorry—God, sorry—” Turning with a low groan, he sagged into a rumple of pillow and blankets.
Kate pushed at his shoulder and realized that the herbs had finally taken him down. Her breath was ragged as she gathered her wits and sat up. Time was slipping away. She had to leave, though a very foolish part of her wanted to stay. And another, even more foolish part of her began to stir with an urge to open her heart.
Not that, she told herself. The lore of the MacCarrans held that only true love would preserve the fairy gift and the well-being of the clan. Anything less would diminish the inherited magic and could even bring disaster to the clan.
Besides, true love was such a rarity that she knew she would never find it. What had burned through her, here and now, newly lit, was only passion. And yet, it gave her hope. Now she could imagine love. And she must thank him for that, at least.
Soothing a hand over the dark-and-gold silk of his hair, she eased away. She must hurry, find the list, find her cousin. She stepped away, trembling, to go about her work.
He would sleep for hours, and when he woke, Katie Hell would be gone. His memory of all this would be dim. But she would have some memories to treasure, along with a sense of what passion, even love, might be like. She wanted that secret.
He rarely dreamed,and never of fairies, yet this one had gone into his arms, into his dreams, lightly as a summer breeze. Exquisite, luscious, she had felt divine in his arms. Had he imagined all that, the feel of her against him, the kisses, his body’s throbbing response, the taste of her lips? He felt as if he had surrendered to magic.
But she had left his arms, slipped away into the mist. Sinking in half-sleep, his mind foggy, he resisted. Something was not right. Wake up, he told himself.Now.
Struggling against miasma, he inhaled, forced himself to sit up. Opening his eyes, he saw the slanting tent walls, lantern light playing over the canvas. Dizzy, dry-mouthed, he was impatient to recover strength and alertness.
Noticing a shadow on the canvas wall, he turned his head.
She was there, the girl he had loved in his strange dream. Her hair, haloed by the light, was a fiery spun gold. She stood over his writing desk rifling through papers, sifting through his notes, his documents.
No blasted fairy at all, he saw, but the laundress. He scowled, rubbed his eyes. Dear Lord. Had he just played bed-sport with a Highland washerwoman?
Carefully, Alec sat straigher. Her back was turned, and she was intent on pilfering his papers. He slid his feet to the floor. The room spun.
The girl turned her head a little, showing her profile. This was the girl in his dream, most definitely. The plain laundress was a delicate beauty with flawless, youthful skin, a slightly upturned nose, eyes of silvery gray. And he had seen her before.
The realization hit him like ice water. She had been in London, gowned in cream and gold. She was neither fairy nor laundress. This had to be the spy they were all searching for, and he had been her next victim, drugged and seduced.
What a fool he had been. Her ruse was too easy to believe, and she had managed to take him down before he realized it. Just like all the others, he had fallen for her.
Rustling through his papers, Katie Hell did not look around. Head whirling, Alec reached out toward the small table beside the cot. His fingers closed on his pistol.
The little hellion selected some pages, folding and cramming them into the pocket of her skirt. She slid one sheet into her bodice, into the sweet, warm cleavage he had touched, kissed. Her scent, clean lavender, still clung to him. And the strange, tender influence she had over him—quite apart from whatever she had dumped into his tea—had spun him around, head and heart.
Well, he thought. There would be no more of that.
The girl lifted her plaid over her head and moved toward the tent flap.
Alec lifted and cocked the pistol, the click loud in the silence. She stopped.
“Katie, my darling,” he murmured. “How good to meet you.”
