Page 15 of Single Desire
“Do you, now. Well, then, I vow I shall be gentle.”
Maura arched a brow. “I daresay a pirate’s oath is hardly one to be believed!”
She felt the laughter that rumbled in his chest. “Then I’ll grant the leniency you think I lack. Your mask, Irish.”
There was a moment of stillness, of utter quiet before she raised her hands and untied the mask. Pulling it free, she laid it on the nightstand.
Her vision focused on her hands, once again clasped together in her lap. She couldn’t look at him. She didn’t dare.
Oddly, he was no longer laughing either. “Your scarf,” he said softly. “Remove it, please.”
Please.
Slowly, Maura raised her hands. However reluctant she was, she knew she mustn’t display it. She tugged the scarf free, then combed through the strands with her fingers. Her gaze was downcast, focused on a point somewhere distant on the floor.
“Look at me, Irish.”
She did not want to. She truly didn’t. In that moment, she had not the words to explain how she felt. Why she felt the way she did. It was as if, by revealing her face, her hair, that she yielded something he had no right to see. As though she wouldgive away some part of herself that didn’t belong to him. It belonged to her. To her.
“Irish.” The word was little more than a breath.
Calmly, she raised her chin. She even managed a glimmer of a smile. Those incredibly blue eyes roved her face, in much the same way that hers had roamed over his. The fixed intensity of his gaze was unnerving, the silence excruciating. It stretched out until she was certain she would scream. Her stomach knotted.
Then, without a word, he reached beneath her hair. Warm fingers brushed her nape, shaped themselves there. Slowly. Oh so slowly. He slowly lowered his gaze to her lips. She made a sound. Or was it he? Maura had one glimpse of his face before his mouth met hers. His eyes were ablaze, like blue fire. She screwed hers shut, as if to close him out.
Scant hope of that. This was nothing like his first kiss. It was as if that kiss had been playful. But this kiss was anything but playful. She tasted headiness. She tasted hunger. She tasted longing. She tasted a passion that was all-consuming, worlds beyond what she had ever imagined. A passion that so far eclipsed what she was prepared for, it was almost frightening.
Gasping, she dragged her mouth free, literally coming up for air. She aimed for a seductive, inviting laugh, and feared that she’d succeeded only in revealing her anxious panic. She needed to get hold of herself.
“Faith, but I find myself suddenly thirsty,” she said. “Where is the wine?”
She tried to slide away. He caught at her elbow. “Ah, Irish, not yet. Just one more kiss.”
She tried to pull away, but he held firm. She couldn’t yank herself free without arousing suspicion.
“I shall make it up to you, Scotsman. I am parched, sir. Truly I am!” She touched her throat, shocked at how hot her skin was. Why, as hot as his! And her voice was indeed hoarse, drier than bone. “Besides, why waste what I’m sure is an excellent bottle of wine?”
There was the faintest amusement in his tone. “The flavor of you is all I desire, Irish. However, I surrender to your wish. But I will hold you to that promise.” His head bowed low. He brushed his lips against the bare flesh of her upper arm.
“And I will make certain that you are not disappointed.” The touch of his lips made her insides tighten. It was difficult to think clearly, let alone speak. “As pirates,” she heard herself say in what she prayed was a provocative tone, “we seek treasure, do we not?”
“And the pursuit of pleasure when and where we chance to find it, eh, Irish?”
“I do believe we shall find both, Scotsman. Now, allow me to pour a glass for you.”
Maura slid from his lap, hoping she didn’t appear eager to be away from him. Slowly she walked to the bureau where he’d placed the bottle of wine and the two goblets.
It was then she spied a letter opener. Shaped like a dagger, it looked lethal and sharp; much sharper than the tiny little knife sewn into the pocket of her skirt. She could have trilled her luck. Could she have asked for anything more? Throughout the evening, fortune had been her foremost ally.
Thankfully, the bottle was already open. The servant had been on his way to the ballroom, and Maura made certain it was uncorked when she took it from the tray.
The wide neckline of her blouse slid down over one bare shoulder. She resisted the urge to drag it up. Such modesty would surely give her away. Casually, hoping he would think nothing of it, she slid the pouch that hung from her neck up and over her head, laying it atop the surface.
There was a rustle of movement behind her. “Do you need assistance, Irish? I’m happy to—”
“No, no.” Every nerve inside her clamored. Hurriedly, she poured wine into one of the goblets. In her nervousness, she nearly overfilled it. She glanced back over her shoulder, slanting him what she hoped was a seductive smile. “But I do believe it might be wise to close the curtains. We wouldn’t want to shock any of the baron’s guests, would we?”
She heard him rise. While his back was to her—and hers to his—she grabbed the pouch and opened it, emptying a tiny stream of silvery-white powder into the wine. She hastily stirred it with a fingertip and sucked the liquid from her skin, then filled the other goblet.
