Page 40 of Some Like It Wild
With his hair spilling across the pillow and moonlight bathing the rugged planes of his face, he no longer looked like a gentleman but like some mythical creature of the forest—more satyr than man. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him chasing down some squealing maiden who would beg him for mercy while secretly welcoming the forbidden pleasure only his touch could bring her.
She inched nearer to the bed, her treacherous fingertips itching to explore the silky whorls of hair dusting his chest. Moonlight caressed those broad planes, reminding her that he didn’t sleep completely nude after all. He was still wearing the gold locket she had glimpsed in the ruins of Castle MacFarlane. And he was still wearing it over his heart.
He stirred in his sleep, drawing her gaze to the sculpted muscles of his abdomen, his powerful thighs. When he shifted again, sending that fragile ribbon of sheet into a dangerous slide, she jerked her mortified gaze back to his face.
His thick, spiky lashes rested flush against his high cheekbones. He must have been dreaming, because a roguish hint of a smile deepened the dimple in his right cheek.
Pamela shook her head, a wry smile curving her own lips. She still couldn’t resist that dimple. It had proven itself her downfall, from the first time she’d seen it sketched on that handbill.
Reaching out her trembling fingers, she tenderly stroked his cheek.
She heard a click. One minute she was standing beside Connor; the next she was beneath him, both of her wrists manacled over her head by one of his powerful hands and the mouth of his cocked pistol pressed to the underside of her jaw.
Chapter 16
Pamela’s voice came out of the darkness, strained and breathless. “If you pull that trigger, I’m guessing a bouquet of flowers won’t burst out of the muzzle.”
For a bewildered moment, Connor thought he was still dreaming. How else to explain the intoxicating scent of lilacs, and Pamela warm and soft beneath him in his bed? But if he was still dreaming, then why wasn’t she as naked as he was? Why was there a worn layer of cotton separating the beguiling softness of her plump breasts from his bare chest? Why was his rigid arousal nudging her thigh instead of being buried deep inside of her? And why was the mouth of his pistol rammed against the tender underside of her jaw?
He felt her graceful throat convulse in a swallow. “If this is how you greet every woman who comes to your bed, Mr. Kincaid, I can see why you might have to pay for your pleasures.”
He carefully uncocked the weapon that was under his control, but could do nothing about the one pressed to her thigh. Nor did he relinquish his grip on her slender wrists. “You’d sleep with a loaded pistol under your pillow too, lass, if someone in this house was trying to kill you.”
“I can assure you that I didn’t sneak in here to smother you with a pillow. Although I must confess the prospect has its merits.”
He gazed down at her, fighting the temptation to silence her saucy little mouth with a kiss. But with her beneath him and completely at the mercy of his superior strength, he couldn’t trust himself to be satisfied with a mere kiss—no matter how delectable.
Silently cursing himself for a fool, Connor freed her wrists and rolled off of her, dragging the sheet over his lap as he did so. Unfortunately, that only succeeded in making a rather pronounced tent. Hell, at this point even the counterpane wouldn’t have helped.
He slipped the pistol back under his pillow, then scooted backward to lean against one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed. He figured the more distance he put between them, the sooner his boiling blood would cool.
Pamela sat up and rubbed her wrists, giving him a reproachful look. “I must say your hospitality leaves a little to be desired.”
“How did you get in?” he demanded. “Did you climb through the window?”
“No. I walked through the door.”
He scowled. “Damn that worthless valet of mine. Brodie was supposed to have locked the door when he came in. He must still be out making calf’s eyes at the cook.”
Pamela’s eyes widened. “The squat woman with no neck and the ham hocks for hands?”
“That would be her. She chased him out of the kitchen with a meat cleaver this afternoon when he offered to show her his tattoo, but he insisted she was just toying with his affections and will make him a bonny wife someday.”
Pamela shook her head ruefully. “Perhaps we should be more worried about the cook mistaking you for Brodie and cleaving you to death in your sleep than Lady Astrid poisoning your tea or Crispin pushing you down a flight of stairs.”
As Connor remembered the raw panic he had felt when the point of Crispin’s epee went whipping toward Pamela, he felt his face harden. “Oh, I think I can take care of young master Crispin. All you have to do is let me hold him down and pummel him until he confesses.”
“I’m afraid you might enjoy that a little too much. Even if he turns out to be innocent.”
Connor snorted. “Men like him are never innocent.”
“Are you saying that because he’s English or because he reminds you of yourself at that age?”
“At his age, I was still riding with my clansmen, trying to fulfill my father’s dream of reuniting Clan Kincaid.”
“Why did you give up on that dream?” she asked softly.
“Because I finally realized we weren’t the heroes we’d always fancied ourselves to be. That we’d become the very thing we despised—common villains preying on the weak.”
