Page 98 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
He practically carriedher up the stairs, stopping at his room, where he tucked away his razor and snatched up his bag before strong-arming her out the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
He stopped in the dim corridor and looked both ways. Someone had lit a lamp near the stairs.
“Which room is yours?”
His voice, husky and ragged, sent chills through her. He was upset about what she’d said. He thought she’d married him for the money. Which she had. And he’d known that. So why was he angry now? And what would he do?
She’d seen what he’d done to Agruen and Cummings. Fear traced a path down her spine.
“Why?” she asked.
He must have felt the trembling she’d been fighting because his grip on her arm eased. “We’re going to have that conversation you’ve been wanting.”
Such an inconvenient time for her vocal cords to freeze.
His face moved closer, his eyes glowing golden in the light. “We’re going to conspire together,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her nose.
“Oh.” She expelled the word on a puff of air. They would conspire.
Her eyes slid to the stairs leading up to the third floor. She had already conspired earlier with Jenny, who had promised to send Mabel to bed and go and find clothing. If she appeared now with a suit of boy’s clothing, the timing was inopportune.
“They put you a floor up from me?”
His voice was rumbling again. “Yes. Like a story our man Jock told me about a girl named Rapunzel, confined to a tower.”
His lips firmed. “We’ll see about that. Lead the way.”
She hurried up the stairs, his hand still attached to her elbow, the connection melting away her anxiety.
It was always like that with him—comforting, exciting. Still, she would need to get rid of him.
Or she could put him to sleep. After so many days in the saddle, whatever bit of rest he’d enjoyed hadn’t been enough.
At the door of her room, his hand found the small of her back. A shot of pure animal awareness coursed through her, sending her breath into short little gasps.
She closed her eyes, caught her breath, and shook herself.
She didn’t have time to make love. She needed to plan her escape and gather her things. Jenny would come soon with whatever clothing and information she’d found. The time for her to leave was now, tonight.
The bedchamber was empty—Mabel had gone to bed after all, thank heavens. A small lamp burned low on the table where her mother’s ornate hair brush and comb were arranged. She would bring only the comb. Nor would she need any of her clothes.
The door closed behind them, and he pulled her into a kiss that melted away all thoughts of packing. His bag plopped on the floor, while his lips, so firm and determined, sent shivers through her.
She opened for him, her tongue twining with his, while his arm locked around her and he brought her so close there was no space between them anywhere. Pleasure drummed through her, sending warmth spiraling. His hard shaft poked at her through her skirts.
Perhaps one very quick tumble and then he would fall sound asleep. Perhaps after so many days on the road it would take only one go around.
His fingers raked through her coiffure, sending a cascade of pins and combs, and she clutched at his strong neck, returning the favor by running her fingers through his hair.
Kisses trailed along her cheek, down her jaw, over her neck, melting her insides. And then he paused, and she heard the scratch at the door.
“Enter.”
The door opened. His gruffness would scare many servants away, but not Jenny.
She took in the scene, bobbed a curtsey, and hefted Paulette’s bundled dress. “I’ve brushed off your gown, miss. Shall I come back later?”
