The Legend of the Werestag Page 7

  “Luke? Is everything—”

  “Promise me,” he said hoarsely, “that you will give me another opportunity to do this properly.” Shaky fingertips traced the pale curve of her hip. “You are so beautiful, Cecily. Yours is a body that deserves to be worshipped, adored. Promise me the chance to kiss every lovely, perfect inch of you—next time.” How she loved those words, next time. She nodded as he prowled up her body. “Of course.”

  “Good.” His voice was strained as he lowered his weight onto hers. “Because—forgive me, darling—this time will have to be quick.”

  She gasped as he insinuated one hand between them, probing the slick folds of her sex and spreading her thighs apart. Then she felt the blunt head of him— there—pressing, pushing, stretching her to the point of pain. And beyond.

  “Are you hurt?” He panted against her neck.

  “A little.”

  “Shall I stop?”

  “No.” She clutched his back and hooked her legs over his. “Don’t you dare.” She had fought for him, fought to experience this pain, and she felt oddly possessive of the dull ache between her legs. She wouldn’t let him take it away. The pain was real, it was now—it meant he had truly come home at last.

  Home to her.

  All too soon, the ache dissipated, lessening with each thrust, and a desperate yearning took its place.

  She rose up to meet each wild buck of his hips, her hands sliding over his back on a thin sheen of perspiration. His tempo increased, driving her closer and closer to that horizon of delicious pleasure he’d pushed her beyond that afternoon. But this time, it would be so much better. This time he would come too.

  With a guttural moan, he froze deep inside her. His gaze caught hers, and Cecily instinctively understood the question in his eyes. They could create a child this way, if she allowed him to continue.

  She swept a lock of hair from his brow and waited. He knew her feelings already. This decision should be his.

  “I do,” he said roughly. “My God, Cecily. I do love you.” Joy swelled inside her, until she trembled with the effort of containing it. Smiling up at him, she whispered, “Then damn the consequences.”

  No more words after that. Only sighs and moans and wild, inarticulate urgings. Faster. More. There.

  Yes, there.

  Now.

  “Can we stay here all night?” Cecily asked. She lay tangled with him on the narrow bed, struggling to catch her breath. Only now growing aware of the musty closeness in the cottage.

  “We could,” he answered sleepily. “If we wish to be awoken by Denny’s footmen crashing down the door. He’ll have them all searching for us soon enough.”

  “He knows I’m with you.” In more ways than one. She felt a pang of sympathy for her old friend.

  There’d been true disappointment in his expression, when she’d broken their kiss and refused him that afternoon. But Denny deserved to find love too, and she never could have made him truly happy. Not when her heart and soul belonged to Luke.

  As if exerting his claim on her body as well, Luke tightened his arms around her. Kissing the hollow of her throat, he murmured, “Perhaps we can stay a half hour more.” Afterward, they rose and dressed quietly, pausing to tidy the small dwelling before latching the door as they left. The night was cloudless, and the nearly full moon provided them sufficient light to follow the path. They walked hand in hand.

  “Did you see it last night?” she asked quietly. “The stag?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was beautiful.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Don’t you agree?” Perhaps men did not think animals “beautiful”, or did not admit to it if they did.

  “Yes.” He gave her a rare, easy smile. “It reminded me of you. Beautiful, graceful, fearless.”

  “And here I thought him so much like you. Proud, wild, strong.” She laughed softly. “Perhaps he didn’t exist at all, and we were just out here chasing each other.” If the stag truly existed, they did not see it again before reaching the border of Swinford Woods and emerging onto the green. Then again, a whole herd of bloodthirsty man-deer could have been lurking in the thickets, and Cecily would have remained oblivious. She only had eyes for Luke.

  And that fact must have been painfully obvious to Denny, when he nearly collided with them at the entrance to the drawing room.

  “Cecily.” His gaze wandered from her unbound hair to her disheveled gown, to her fingers still laced with Luke’s. “I…I was just about to go searching for you.”

  “There you are!” Portia called from behind him. “Come in, come in.” She lay swaddled in blankets on the divan, with her bandaged leg propped on a nearby ottoman. Brooke sat beside her, balancing a teacup in either hand.

  Cecily turned to Denny. “I’m sorry to have worried you, but…” She squeezed Luke’s hand for courage.

  “You see, Luke and I—”

  “I understand,” he replied. The serious expression on his face told her he did understand, completely. To his credit, he took it well. He turned to Luke. “When will you be married?”

  “Married?” Portia exclaimed.

  Cecily sighed. Just like Denny, to take his responsibilities as her third cousin twice removed—and only male relation in the vicinity—so seriously. But did he have to force the issue now? Certainly, she hoped that she and Luke might one day—

  “As soon as possible.” Luke’s arm slid around her waist.

  Cecily’s gaze snapped up to his. Are you certain? she asked him silently.

  He answered her with a quick kiss.

  “Well, then. When can we be married?” Brooke directed his question to Portia.

  “Married!” Blushing furiously, Portia made a dismissive gesture with both hands. “Why, I’m only just learning to enjoy being a widow. I don’t want to be married. I want to write scandalous novels and take dozens of lovers.”

  Brooke raised an eyebrow. “Can that be negotiated to lov er, singular?”

  “That,” she said, giving him a coy smile, “would depend on your skill at negotiation.”

  “What an evening you’ve had, Portia,” Cecily said. “A brush with death, a proposal of marriage, an indecent proposition… Surely you have sufficient inspiration for your gothic novel?”

  “Too much inspiration!” Portia wailed, gesturing toward her bandaged foot. “I am done with gothics completely. No, I shall take a cue from my insipid wallpaper and write a bawdy little tale about a wanton dairymaid and her many lovers.”

  “Lover, singular.” Brooke flopped on the divan and settled her feet in his lap.

  “Oh,” she sighed, as he massaged her uninjured foot. “Oh, very well.” Luke tugged on Cecily’s hand, drawing her toward the doorway. “Let’s make our escape.” As they left, she heard Denny say in his usual jocular tone, “Do me a favor, Portia? Model your hero after me. Just once, I should like to get the girl.”

  Cecily and Luke tumbled into the corridor, hands still linked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, twirling her to a stop and backing her against the wall. “I didn’t have a chance to ask for your hand properly, but…you don’t have an objection, do you?” She paused a moment to savor the endearing vulnerability in his expression. Then she kissed him soundly, threading her fingers into his hair and pressing her body to his. “There,” she said finally. “Does that feel like an objection?”

  He smiled and planted a light kiss between her eyebrows before resting his forehead against hers.

  Between them, their hands made a tight knot of fingers and thumbs.

  “I’ll leave within the hour,” he said, “to go speak with your father. I cannot expect even Denny to be so generous as to continue hosting his rival in this house. And I couldn’t spend another night here without having you in my bed.”

  “As if I would find that objectionable.”

  They kissed again, and he pressed her against the wall, his hips grinding deliciously against hers. “We must have”— kiss—“a very brief”— kiss�
�“engagement.”

  “Can we not just elope? I could pack a valise in a trice.” He laughed softly into her hair, and she thought it the most beautiful sound in the world.

  “Cecy,” he whispered against her ear, “tell me this is not a dream. Are you truly mine at last?”

  “Oh, Luke.” She slid her arms about his waist and gripped him tight. “I always have been.” About the Author

  Tessa Dare is a part-time librarian, full-time mommy and swing-shift author of historical romance. She makes her home in Southern California, where she shares a cozy, cluttered bungalow with her husband, their two children and a big brown dog.

  To learn more about Tessa please visit www.tessadare.com. Send an email to tessa@tessadare.com or join her mailing list to learn more about her upcoming releases.

  When danger lurks, is courage alone enough to save a country—and a heart?

  To Capture a Spy

  © 2008 Silvia Violet

  It’s not enough Meg Wentworth has suffered kidnapping, imprisonment and torture. She kept her wits about her and escaped with her life, only to be captured by a handsome British officer—and promptly accused of spying for the French. Convincing him otherwise turns out to be easier than dealing with her next discovery: that Lucien just might be the man to help her put her life back together. If only he will let go of his rigid control long enough to let her show him they belong together.

  Recovering from a near-fatal injury, British intelligence officer Lucien Archer hoped to leave the shadowy, violent world that left him scarred, body and soul. But a mysterious letter calls him back to duty, and nothing prepares him for Meg. The beautiful spy’s fiery spirit threatens to break through the shell Lucien has built around his heart.

  But Meg’s kidnapper wasn’t looking for simple ransom. He’s an old enemy of Lucien’s, Le Lézard, who’s resurfaced with a single goal. To raise magical forces dark and powerful enough to destroy England. To do it, blood must flow. The blood of Lucien and Meg.

  And the fire of passion that burns between them is the perfect lure to get them both where he wants them. On an altar of sacrifice.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for To Capture a Spy: Lucien Archer shifted position for what seemed like the thousandth time. The dirty blanket and lumpy sack that made up his bed weren’t the problem. He’d slept in much worse conditions as an officer in Wellington’s army, and he was used to staying in filthy cottages when he was out gathering information.

  In fact, he was lucky a safe house for British agents stood so close to where he’d found the woman. At least he had food and other necessary supplies.

  The unfortunate source of his restlessness was the woman who lay across the room. He didn’t know her real name. His contacts had told him that she’d introduced herself most recently as Annette Dubois, but she’d been known by many names in the last few years. She’d nearly convinced him of her innocence, but he’d been warned that she was good at what she did.

  What had happened to make her run tonight? Had she quarreled with Le Lézard, refused to do his bidding? The rope burns on her arms, and the hint of bruises on her face, showed that someone had tried to subdue her.

  He tried to calm his mind enough to allow the light, watchful sleep of a man on guard, but he kept thinking about how the woman had looked facing him across the cabin. She was stunning despite her hair twisting out from her braid in wild wisps, her skin ghostly pale from her ordeal, and her face bearing the faint traces of a beating. His contacts had been right. She was beautiful enough to make a man turn traitor. He could easily imagine a weaker man spilling his darkest secrets for a chance to be with her.

  She was nothing like the woman he’d envisioned. He’d expected a cold, hardened beauty, but this woman was fresh, vibrant. Based on her history, she had to be at least thirty, but she looked ten years younger. Her body was full and curvaceous, yet she had an air of innocence and skin like fine china. Her hands were unbelievably soft and smooth. His senses had revolted at the red marks he’d seen there.

  He’d never used violence against women to extract information from female contacts, and he never would.

  With a soft growl, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? The information this woman had passed resulted in the deaths of hundreds of British soldiers, including most of his own regiment. Men like Geordie, who bought his commission one week before he’d died at age nineteen, and Lloyd, one of his friends from Eton, who’d been stabbed in his sleep. He shouldn’t care whether her skin stayed lovely. He should want her to pay. Could he bring himself to extract information from her by any means necessary? He prayed she would give in to his demands before his ethics came into question.

  How could she look so innocent and still have power over him? He’d expected her to attempt seduction, but he’d been unprepared for her subtlety. She made him want to hold her and kiss away the fear in her eyes. He was definitely going to have to keep his distance.

  Across the room, the bed creaked. He jerked upright.

  “No! Don’t touch me!” the woman yelled as she kicked the wall. “I won’t do it!” Lucien rushed to the lantern and lit it as she screamed again. She jerked at the ropes, struggling to free her hands, but her eyes were closed. She was dreaming.

  “I won’t let you touch me!” she cried.

  What had that monster done to her? In that moment, Lucien didn’t care who she was. No one deserved to be tormented like that.

  He moved to her side and saw blood seeping through the cloth around her wrist. What should he do?

  How could he wake her without scaring her more?

  She screamed again — a high-pitched sound he felt all the way to his bones.

  Placing his hand lightly on her leg, he called, “Annette, wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming.” When she didn’t wake, he pressed harder, shaking her gently. “Annette! Wake up!” Her eyes fluttered open. She pulled back when she saw him.

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  Her hair was damp with sweat and her deep, brown eyes were unfocused. He wasn’t sure she’d heard him. She glanced down, and the last bit of color drained from her face. His eyes followed hers, seeing her bloody wrists. “Do you remember where you are?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t move. I’ll get a knife and cut you free.” Reluctant to leave her side, Lucien backed away slowly.

  He pulled a knife and his medical supplies from his saddlebag. Annette watched him warily but didn’t speak.

  As he approached the bed, she whimpered and tried to scoot away. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to loosen these ropes so I can bandage your wrists.”

  “My name isn’t Annette.”

  “Then what should I call you?”

  She stared at him for a few seconds before responding. “Meg.”

  “I’m Lucien.” He immediately cursed himself for giving her his real name. He’d been in intelligence for years, and he was acting like a green recruit. Still it felt good to simply be himself. It had been too long since he’d shared that intimacy with anyone. “Hold your hands apart, so I can cut the ropes.” She obeyed, not letting out so much as a whimper while he cut her free. He doubted he could loosen the cloth as easily. “This will probably hurt.” He began to pull the fabric from her wrists. It stuck to the wounds in several places, but she didn’t make a sound.

  He finished and stepped back. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip, and she was trembling. He feared she might faint at any moment. “Lie down. I’m going outside to get some water to clean your wounds.

  Will you give me your word that you will stay here?”

  A simple nod was all the answer he got, but he decided to risk it. In her weakened state, she wouldn’t get far if she tried to escape.

  When he returned, she was lying down with her eyes closed. They opened at the noise of his approach, and he saw a flash of fear before recognition set in.

  “I can bandage myself. I don’t need your help.” She reac
hed for the bowl he’d filled with water.

  He held it firmly. “I’ll do it. Your arms are shaking. When was your last meal?”

  “I don’t know, but I can take care of myself.”

  “No you can’t. You’re too damn weak. I’ve always treated prisoners better than the French apparently treat their spies.”

  “Why are you concerned about me if you believe I’m working for Le Lézard?” He was wondering the same damn thing. Hardly aware of his actions, he reached out and traced the faint remainder of a bruise on her face. “I don’t like to see women brutalized. If you tell me what I need to know, I’ll see that you aren’t hurt anymore.”

  She relinquished her hold on the bowl. He wet a rag and washed her wrists, working as gently as he could, but when he reached one of the deeper gashes, she sucked in her breath.

  He looked up. That was a mistake.

  As she’d struggled in the throes of her nightmare, her dress had worked its way down, and her full breasts threatened to spill out. He forced himself to look at her face, but he couldn’t stop his response.

  The blush on her cheeks told him she knew what he’d been looking at, but she didn’t say anything as he finished his ministrations, applying some salve to soothe the wounds and wrapping her wrists with bandages. Her color had yet to return. He ordered her to lie down before she passed out.

  He walked to the window and stood, pondering his predicament. He couldn’t bring himself to tie her wrists again, but he couldn’t trust her not to run if he left her unrestrained. He found himself wanting to believe her, wanting her to be anyone but the woman he sought.

  A passion they never expected…a mystery that could cost them everything.

  Yorkshire

  © 2008 Lynne Connolly

  Richard and Rose, Book 1

  Rose Golightly is a country girl who thinks her life will continue on its comfortable course, but a series of events changes that for good. On a visit to the ancestral estate of Hareton Abbey, Richard Kerre, Lord Strang, enters her life. A leader of society, a man known for extravagance in dress and life, Richard is her fate. And she is his.

  Richard is to marry a rich, frigid woman in a few weeks, and has deliberately closed his heart to love.