Page 5 of The Dove
Mrs. Russel’s voice reached out to her, and she glanced up to meet the woman’s kind, concerned gaze. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to calm herself. So, Adam had come to London. That did not mean she would encounter him, or that he had come forher. He had made it perfectly clear with his callous dismissal that she meant nothing to him. Why, then, would he seek her out just because they happened to occupy the same city?
“I apologize,” she managed, slowly rising to her feet. “I’m afraid I don’t feel very well.”
Fumbling about for her reticule, she retrieved a handful of banknotes and presented them to Mrs. Russel to cover her breakfast.
“Perhaps you ought to be heading home now,” the old woman suggested, taking Daphne’s arm and guiding her toward the door. “And straight to bed with you! I don’t want to see you again until you are well.”
“Of course, Mrs. Russel,” she agreed absently, her head spinning dizzily. “Thank you.”
She stumbled out onto the street, one hand pressed against her roiling stomach. Though she had convinced herself that Adam could not have possibly come for her, she could not seem to find peace of mind. Her stomach churned, and her heart pounded. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked, certain he might appear from around a corner at any moment, huffing smoke and snorting ash before descending upon her with his teeth bared.
“For Heaven’s sake,” she huffed under her breath. “You are being ridiculous.”
Yet, she could not help the cold frisson of dread that trickled down her spine, prompting her to quicken her steps toward home.
CHAPTER TWO
ord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, released the curtain fisted in his grasp, allowing the heavy material to fall back over the window of his carriage—blotting out the light of the sun as well as his view of the woman racing down the street as if the hounds of Hell nipped at her heels. The irony of such a metaphor made him chuckle, as the heat that had flared in his blood at the sight of her might be likened to the sort of fierceness attributed to a Hellhound. Running his tongue over his teeth, he imagined chasing her, capturing her, having his first taste of her flesh. A shudder wracked him, the thick organ between his legs going hard as stone.
He had waited for what felt like hours for her to emerge from the little townhome on Half-Moon Street, following at a discreet distance to the little coffee shop a few blocks away. His jaw had tightened at the sight of her, one hand clenching in his lap. It annoyed him to no end that she walked about alone—even in broad daylight. She shouldn’t be unaccompanied in the open, where she could be accosted by just anyone. With the money he had given her, she ought to have hired a well-muscled footman to trail her for the purposes of protection.
Did she think she was hiding anything beneath the prim walking dress, or that veiled hat? Even if he hadn’t known it was her exiting that house shrouded in secrecy, he would have recognized her. There was something about her that set her apart—a straightness to her shoulders and a sway to her walk. An essence … a presence that belonged uniquely to her. It beckoned to him as much as it infuriated him.
He wanted to yank her hair free of whatever useless coiffure it had been arranged into and send it spiraling down her back. He wanted to wrap his hand around it, yank with all his might, and force her to bend, to break, to contort out of that prim posture of a lady and become his little wanton again.
Balling his hand into a fist, he banged on the ceiling of the carriage to alert his driver. Outside the conveyance, he heard the snap of the reins and the call of his driver before the carriage lurched, setting off in the opposite direction.
Slouching a bit in the carriage seat, he closed his eyes and fought to get his urges under control. He had allowed impulse to drive him to London—three months’ worth of frustration and a niggling itch he could not seem to scratch. He felt like a beast clawing at its own skin, desperate for relief, tearing itself to shreds.
He’d come here on an impulse, but now that he’d laid eyes on her, the sensation had changed. It had calmed, the unbearable itch giving way to a tingle that began at the back of his neck and trickled down his spine, spreading out through his groin. His mouth watered, and his stomach clenched, his veins pulsing with the thrill of the hunt. As much as he wished to barge into her townhouse, throw her over his shoulder, carry her to the nearest bed or couch, and plunder her body, he would refrain. After all, he enjoyed the chase as much as he did the resulting surrender. He did not want a fleeting moment of shock or terror from her. He wanted to stalk her, watch her shiver with the premonition telling her his eyes caressed her body through her clothes. He wanted her to see him from a distance and feel the walls closing in around her.
He wanted her on edge and off-balance. Not because it brought him joy to torment her … but because he knew that in the darkest corners of her soul, she secretly liked it. She might never admit it aloud, but their time together at Dunnottar had opened his eyes to her true nature. Just like it came naturally to him to dominate and rule, it seemed to be part of her nature to fight and run, enjoying the chase right up until the moment he disarmed her.
Then …
Releasing a ragged breath, he pressed a hand against his aching cock. Just thinking of what came next had him throbbing, pushing against the placket of his breeches.
Because, then, she surrendered. Willingly. Beautifully. Perfectly.
Adam had discovered his penchant for control in the bedchamber during his days a young man about town, frequenting whorehouses near every night. From the first time he’d ever experienced the twinge of desire and taken his own cock in hand, he’d been insatiable—craving things he did not fully understand. A part of him had seemed to know what it was once he’d encountered it. And encounter it he did, in a little brothel in Edinburgh, a few short months before his Grand Tour.
The little lass he had paid to bed for the night had barely stood as high as his chest, with a sinfully curvy body and hair like flaxen gold. Gazing up at him with deceptively innocent green eyes, she had sunk to her knees on the rough, wooden floor. She had reached for him, wrapping her arms around his leg and rubbing against him like a kitten seeking the hand of its master. Nuzzling his erection through his fall and murmuring to him, she had given him his first taste of true submission.
“What do you want, m’laird?” she’d whispered in a low, sweet voice that had added fuel to his ardor, lengthening and thickening his cock to near unbearable limits.
During his past encounters, he had been accustomed to taking the lead, moving his bedmate into the positions he wanted, pinning her beneath his big body, perhaps taking hold of her wrists so she could not move. The women he’d fucked had liked it, the displays of his strength and power. They’d even seemed to expect such from a young, titled bachelor.
But this—what the little blonde whore offered him—had proved far different than what he’d previously experienced. It would change him for life.
He was not certain what had prompted him to answer the lass with, “Everything … all of it.”
She had nodded as if understanding what he said, as well as what he did not say. Wrapping her body around his leg, she had squirmed against him, agitating her pelvis on the gleaming, polished boot reaching up to his knee.
“Tell me,” she had moaned, clinging to him and getting herself off with the simple act of rubbing against him. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me.”
It had felt like the most natural thing in the world to reach down and grab a handful of her hair, yanking until her neck arched and she gazed up at him—to tighten his hand until her eyes watered and she winced from the undoubted sting in her scalp. To whisper every filthy, depraved fantasy she inspired, wrapping herself around him and rutting on him so shamelessly. She had gasped and moaned as he’d given voice to his dark desires, climaxing as she’d ground her mound against his shoe.
“Yes, m’laird,” she had whimpered, falling slack and holding on to his leg as if for dear life. “Take me … take it all.”
