Page 47 of Gallant Waif
“I have you now, little vixen,” he growled, drawing her closer. Kate struggled against the unbreakable grip and he stared down at her, his eyes blazing. Effortlessly he pressed her back against a nearby table, imprisoning her legs with one muscular thigh and enclosing her narrow wrists in one large hand. Ignoring her struggles, he pulled her hard against him, chest to chest, breathing heavily, causing a light, tantalising friction. Silence fell, except for the sounds of their breathing and the crackling fire.
“I really ought to beat you, you know,” he murmured at last, his eyes darkening.
Kate knew she was in no such danger. His hold on her might be unbreakable, but it was also quite gentle. Almost possessive. It was another kind of danger altogether she was in. She gazed up at him for a long moment, her eyes clinging to his, then dropping to his mouth. She should not encourage this, should not allow it. She might want it with all her heart, but it was not proper to want it. “Please…” she gasped, and wriggled, meaning him to release her.
He looked down at her enigmatically and groaned. “If you must look at me like that with those eyes…” he muttered, and lowered his mouth to hers.
It was no gentle embrace and Kate had never experienced anything like it. She struggled half-heartedly against the invasion of her self-possession, but his lips, at first hard and demanding, softened and were tenderly teasing and coaxing hers until, without conscious volition, she responded to their demands and her lips parted.
Fire shot through her with such force that she let out a small whimper. His grip instantly gentled and he lifted his face and stared into hers. Kate was helpless—his muscular arms were all that kept her from sliding to the floor, her head was thrown back and her damp lips remained parted.
“What did you mean about my eyes?” she finally said.
“Only that every time I look into them I want to do this—”
He lowered his mouth to hers again in a long, passionate kiss.
Kate’s senses were reeling but, more, she could not believe what he had said—her eyes made him want to kiss her?Her eyes?
He lifted his head back and smiled into her dazed face. She knew she should do something, say something, but she could not. Her eyes clung to his and he seemed to see the silent message in them for he murmured, “See—you’re doing it again,” and lowered his mouth, with agonising tenderness, to hers.
Without warning, he brushed his fingers across her breasts. Kate gasped and arched her back in response. Her nipples were unbearably tender as his hands rubbed the material of her frock and chemise across them. Her body was racked with wave after wave of the most exquisite shudders, and she could not help but push herself against him. At the same time, his mouth, lips and tongue were creating the most amazing sensations, intensifying the feeling she had of needing to get closer to him, to feel him against, around, inside her.
She could taste the brandy he had been consuming, the tobacco he had smoked, but also, something indefinable, the maleness and uniqueness of Jack. She wanted to touch him, taste him, feel him. One of her hands embedded itself in his thick, crisp dark hair, while the other cupped his jaw, rubbing tenderly back and forth, revelling in the texture of his unshaven chin. His mouth moved away from hers for a moment and she whimpered softly in protest at the deprivation and followed it.
His body was pressing against hers, moving in a slow, rhythmical motion, male to female, holding, tasting, wanting. His arms moved around to her back, and Kate thrust forward into the circle of his body, rubbing her breasts against the hardness of his chest. She felt him withdraw from her in some indefinable way, then gradually became aware of a growing draught at her back.
Abruptly she realised that Jack was unfastening her dress, trying to slip it from her shoulders. She pulled back, uttering a small exclamation of surprise, and found herself clutching her dress to her and staring him wordlessly in the face.
“Jack…” she whispered, an unanswerable question in her eyes.
His gaze fixed on her face for a moment. He swore and thrust her away. Running a hand through his hair, he turned and headed for the table where he habitually kept the brandy. He pulled up short and swore again, recalling its recent fate. He dug his hands into his pockets and stared moodily into the fire. He kicked it once with his bad leg and sparks flew and danced like whirling dervishes up the chimney, while the pain brought him to his senses.
Kate hurriedly fastened up her dress as best she could, then waited for Jack to turn around. They stood there for long, silent minutes, Jack staring into the fire, his chest heaving, an unreadable look on his face, Kate, her face delicately flushed in the candlelight, wide-eyed and nervous.
Jack clenched his jaw. One tender word from him now and she would be in his arms again. And this time there would be no stopping him. He was poised on a knife-edge as it was. He’d never wanted any woman in his life as much as he wanted her.
But Kate was a lady, and if he touched her now they would be calling the banns next Sunday in church, and he couldn’t do that to her: tie her for life to a miserable wreck when, with his grandmother’s help, she could have almost anyone, and a life of ease and pleasure. No, he wasn’t much of a gentleman, but he had enough pride not to speak that tender word and snare her with her own kindness.
“Get out of here before I really do give you a beating,” he growled. “Lord, didn’t your father ever teach you not to throw yourself at a man like that? If I didn’t know you to be an innocent…” He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s provocation of the worst sort. Do you not understand? It is asking to be used like the lowest sort of woman!”
The colour slowly drained from Kate’s face. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come.
…asking to be used like the lowest sort of woman!He was accusing her of wantonness, she thought despairingly. Blaming her, like all the rest…Throwing herself at a man…If I didn’t know you to be an innocent…But he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did. And what would he think, once he did know her better? That she’d provoked Henri, too? That she’d asked to be a Frenchman’s whore?
She would die if Jack ever looked at her the way those men in Lisbon had.
She stared at him numbly. It was true. She had provoked him.
Provoked…the argument. Provoked his anger, that was all. But Jack had grabbed her first. And he had kissed her when she had no thought of it—well, not much. Oh, yes, she had kissed him back, but he had started it, kissing her in that devastating…Andhehad been the one who had begun to undo her dress! But, like the people in Lisbon, he held her responsible…
Well, ifshewas wanton, then so washe!
Suddenly anger bubbled up in her, anger not only for what Jack had said, but for what men had said about her in Portugal and Spain. Blaming her!
Hypocrites!
This time she would not tamely accept the blame for what a man had done to her. She would retrieve her position. And give him the response he deserved!
