But she could hear his laughter behind her, and the taunt, “Now there were the manners of a pig, Meg-O-m’dear. Did you notice the difference?”
She halted, feeling safe now with some distance between them, and turned to hiss, “Between this vulgarity and your earlier crudity? No difference a’tall.”
“Well, then, speaking of manners, you may as well look as touch, Miss Penworthy. It has the same effect on a man—coming from you.”
“Bastard!”
“Spoiled brat,” he shot back, then dipped his head mockingly and sauntered out the front door.
And the man was whistling, as if he were supremely confident he had won that round, while Megan was so furious she felt like running after him to do physical violence. She barely restrained herself. But if he ever spoke to her again…
Chapter 6
“I want to ride you, you can’t imagine how much. Will you let me?”
Devlin’s eyes snapped open at the sound of those softly uttered words coming through the partially open door. The door had no lock, wouldn’t even close properly. But the first order of business yesterday had been a new bed to replace the moldy, lumpy cot in the room he had allocated to himself. Fixing the door hadn’t been a priority, not over his comfort. Now he wished it had been.
Just what he needed to wake up to, the sound of lovers trysting in his stable, especially when he had gone to sleep fantasizing a tryst of his own, more than a tryst actually, with the hot-tempered Miss Penworthy. Of course, in his fantasy she wasn’t hot-tempered, just—hot. She didn’t speak at all, didn’t even open her mouth, except for his kisses, and to make use of a velvety soft tongue…
Devlin groaned as heat filled his loins again, just as it had last night when he’d imagined that redhead adoring his body. He was definitely going to have to avoid such thoughts, at least until he found a willing female in the area to see to the raging need they aroused.
He made a quick review of his current options. There had been that pretty little innkeeper’s daughter the other night who had flirted with Mortimer after Devlin had shown no interest. Mortimer had in fact gone back to spend another night at the inn last night. Devlin wondered if he’d staked a claim there. Common courtesy required that he ask first.
Then there’d been the housemaid who’d come with the clean bedding yesterday. What was her name? He couldn’t remember, but her overly generous attributes had reminded him of his last mistress, and she’d fairly drooled as she looked Devlin over. An easy tumble, that. Could have had her yesterday without the least effort on his part. Should have. But he’d just as soon avoid any dalliance with the squire’s house staff. Servants tended to gossip outrageously, and he preferred to keep his liaisons discreet.
He had little doubt he’d find someone suitable to his taste and needs who would be agreeable to a brief affair, only the present condition of his body demanded he do so rather quickly, preferably today. Damn Megan Penworthy. And those lovers on the other side of his door weren’t helping one bloody bit. Servants from the manor, no doubt, who hadn’t yet heard that the stable was now occupied by more than horses. And they were up damn early. A glance at the one small window in the room showed it was barely dawn.
“Sir Ambrose just might be jealous, but I don’t care. I can ride you both.”
A husky laugh accompanied those words drifting through his door. Devlin stifled another groan. He tried to remember what was outside the door in this back section of the stable. Two stalls, wasn’t it? And with Caesar in one of them, he was surprised the stallion wasn’t snorting in disapproval at the disturbance.
Devlin felt like doing more than snorting. In fact, he was getting damned angry that his sleep had been interrupted by the feminine voice that was beginning to sound familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. He was even more angry at the effect it was having on him, because it did sound so familiar.
“That tickles.” A giggle. “So you like that, do you? I thought you might. Sir Ambrose loves it.”
Devlin shot out of his bed, in the grip of an inexplicable rage now that a face had finally come to him to go with that softly purring voice. He yanked the already open door wide, but abruptly halted at that point. No lovers cavorting in the one empty stall. No man to beat to a bloody pulp. Just Megan, standing in a pool of lantern light, with Caesar nibbling sugar out of her cupped palm. She was dressed in a jade-green riding habit, her bright copper hair in a thick braid lying like a flame down the center of her back. She hadn’t heard Devlin, her full attention lavished on the animal she’d been seducing with her soft words and edible enticements.
Even with her innocence before him, the rage didn’t leave Devlin completely. It couldn’t. It had been too hot to begin with. He wasn’t even aware of its cause, since jealousy wasn’t in his sphere of normal emotions. But he’d classed this female as virginal, which put her off limits for himself—and accounted for a good deal of his previous irritation with her. So that brief, damning conclusion he’d drawn when he finally recognized her voice, that she wasn’t virginal after all, was in fact sharing her exquisite little body not just with the lucky fellow she was presently with, but also with the soon-to-be-jealous Sir Ambrose—that had sent him over the edge, especially since he’d been lying there with a full arousal caused by thoughts of the same female.
He realized that he’d made a mistake—a ridiculous one, to be truthful—but that didn’t help to calm him either. He decided he’d had good reason to be annoyed—a mild word for what he’d felt—after he’d denied himself the pleasure of seducing her himself, only to think she was actually quite free with her favors. But she wasn’t, he’d still have to deny himself, and, perversely, that was what was keeping his emotions on an upper level.
“What are you doing here, brat?” His sour tone matched his mood.
Megan didn’t turn around, but her back straightened stiffly, telling him she recognized his voice. Her hand dropped slowly to carelessly wipe the remaining white crystals on her skirt. Caesar didn’t appreciate that, his head coming completely out of the stall in search of more sugar.
“I will thank you to address me properly—”
“So don’t thank me.”
“—or not at all, preferably the latter.”
She whirled around then, about to say more, but no words came out other than a silent “Oh” as her eyes took in the sight of Devlin wearing no more than his trousers, and those had been half unfastened for comfort, revealing a considerable amount of skin below his navel. Helplessly, curiously, almost compulsively, her eyes moved over all that bare, golden skin, skimming the wide shoulders, the long, muscle-defined arms, the broad width of chest that narrowed down in his hard leanness to a flat stomach, then hips that flared out only minimally from his waist. Black hair lay thickly over his upper chest, with only a few strands swirling about his nipples, none at all on his smooth middle, but just below the navel it grew again in a straight line that disappeared into his trousers. And below that—a thick bulge straining at the bit of material still fastened on his trousers.
Her eyes went no farther, stayed fixed with a bemused intensity on that most private area of his anatomy, and Devlin watched her breathlessly, felt his tumescence grow even more under her stimulating regard, and couldn’t believe she was doing this to him again. He’d slept in his trousers for modesty’s sake because the door wouldn’t close. He’d be standing there bare-assed naked if he hadn’t, for he’d had no thought whatsoever about clothes or lack of them when he’d bounded out of his bed to demolish her lover. Would she still be staring like that if he was completely naked? He had a feeling she would.
“If my door would’ve closed properly, you’d have more to see right now, since I usually sleep in the buff. I can still rectify that. Would you like me to take them off?”
Her eyes had snapped up to his with his first word, but they rounded now as his meaning sunk in, and before the hot color could come flooding into her cheeks, Megan bolted. But not quickly enough. The r
age that had been simmering in Devlin was now joined by the passion she’d just stirred to life, unleashing a primitive impulse in him that wouldn’t let her escape this time. He leaped after her, his long legs closing the distance in seconds, and before she could even think to scream, he swung her around, gathered her close, and kissed her.
She felt nothing but shock in those first moments, then fear, because of what he’d just said. Her feet weren’t touching the ground, her braid was gripped at its base so she couldn’t avoid the ravenous onslaught of his mouth, and her body was crushed to his, but she began to struggle anyway, pounding at his shoulders and arms, unable to reach his chest because she was pressed too hard to it.
She didn’t like what he was doing to her. His mouth was hurting hers. The arm holding her up was going to crack one of her ribs, she was certain. She was losing a good many hairs at her nape because of her own struggles and his grip that wouldn’t loosen the tiniest bit. And she couldn’t breathe, had actual visions of expiring of suffocation. Fortunately, self-preservation forced air through her nose right when she was starting to see dots before her eyes, but that only solved one of her discomforts. So she continued to punch, to push, to yank at his hair, but he ignored all her efforts and continued to grind his mouth down on hers.
It took Devlin a long while to realize that the woman in his arms was actually fighting him, seriously fighting him, without the least bit of pretense about it. It was such a unique experience, but then so was his complete loss of control, which had kept him from even noticing that his unbridled passion wasn’t being reciprocated. But he had noticed finally, and his head came up so he could look down at the object of his madness. No tears, but something more than wariness in those big blue eyes, more like fear.
“You hurt me,” she said in a small, accusing voice.
Good God, had he really? What the bloody hell was this woman doing to him, that he could behave in a manner so alien to his own nature?
“I’m sorry.” And he was, sincerely, at least for hurting her. “But I went to bed with you on my mind, woke up hearing your voice, and I’m afraid having you caress me with those lovely eyes of yours again destroyed my common sense.”
That sounded like a complaint to her ears instead of an apology, and one that put her at fault for what he’d just done to her. But it took care of her fear, swiftly replacing it with rising fury.
She was about to blast him with that new emotion when he added, “How did I hurt you?”
Angry that he didn’t know, her eyes flared but she was quick to enlighten him, especially since his hold on her still hadn’t slackened. “You’re breaking my back. You’ve probably pulled out most of my hair. And if my lips haven’t been shredded on my own teeth, I’d be surprised.”
To his own ears, those sounded suspiciously like the petty complaints of a sulking young miss who didn’t know the first thing about passion. But a slap would have been preferable to a man known for his finesse in the bedroom. He was insulted. He was reminded of why he’d always avoided virgins like the plague. He was also reminded that she was an innocent young miss, but one begging to have that fact changed by her very brazen behavior. All told, he absolved himself of guilt as well as amends-making, which he no longer felt she deserved. He wished he could rid himself of his lust as easily, but it was still running rampant, and was partly responsible for the pique that wouldn’t let him apologize again.
“Incidentals, certainly,” he replied to her charges, though he did set her on her feet to adjust his hold on her, which he had no thought of relinquishing just yet. “This is what you get for eating me with your eyes.”
“I didn’t!” she gasped.
“You did. And it’s what you’ll get the next time you do it, and the next. If you keep it up, you might eventually learn how to kiss a man properly.”
He wanted to hurt her at that point, because he was hurting so badly with wanting her. And he’d come to his senses already, so he knew he’d go on hurting, that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do anything more than kiss her. The warning was also designed to make her stay the hell away from him, because he had no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t be able to withstand a steady dose of Miss Penworthy’s unusual brand of enticement.
Her response was a heated “I hate you!” which actually made Devlin grin.
“I’d be wounded, devastated,” he told her, the grin still on his lips putting the lie to those words, “except you haven’t asked me to let you go yet, have you, which you should have done—if you really hate me.”
“Let me!—”
“Too late.”
And his mouth came down on hers again, only there was a wealth of difference in this kiss. Cognizant of her innocence this time, keeping it firmly in mind, he brought his own experience to bear, coaxing, gently persuading, enticing her mouth to open, and, when it finally did, swooping in to claim the prize. Good God, she was exquisitely sweet.
He received only two more punches before her hands were clinging to his arms instead. Her stiffness relaxed, letting her soft curves melt into his hardness, a response he was more accustomed to. But it made him want to thrust his tongue deep, to tap her passion, only he was afraid it would have the opposite effect on a virgin—how should he know?—so he kept a tight rein on the urge, continually cautioning himself to go slowly, carefully. He was also ready for a quick retreat if she thought to clamp her teeth down on him, but that didn’t occur to her, innocent that she was.
She wasn’t even participating in the kiss, was just accepting what he was doing to her, but that was perfectly fine with Devlin, for the hold he had on his passion was so tenuous, he didn’t think he could bear it if she tried to kiss him back—if she even knew how. He didn’t care about that either; her inexperience was all he could handle now. Her lips were soft, only slightly swollen from his previous assault, her breath sweet, her bemused acquiescence sweeter still, and her warm, pliant body…God, God, give me strength.
But Devlin’s had run out, the urge simply too great to be inside her, and he couldn’t stop himself from grasping her hips and pressing her against the full magnitude of his need. Her gasp told him she’d never felt the like. His own body told him he was about to carry her to his bed. He needed her anger back and quickly. He needed his bloody face slapped.
He released her lips, standing there trembling, in an agony of lust, fighting to get his breath back, and his sanity. “Now you know,” he said to get what he needed before he took what he really needed. “Let me know if you ever want to feel it without these clothes between us.”
After a long moment of stunned silence, he got the slap he’d asked for, but it didn’t have the desired effect. Instead it made him want to grab her back and kiss her again. So he switched tactics to a more direct insult.
“The proper thing for you to have done in the first place would have been to close your eyes immediately against my semi-nakedness and turn around so you wouldn’t be further offended by it. But then you’re not quite proper, are you, Miss Penworthy?”
Another slap, deserved or not, for he’d just spoken the bare-faced truth. And then she disappeared around the corner that would take her to the front of the stable.
Chapter 7
Megan ran all the way to the house and straight up to her room. She stood panting against her closed door, her eyes squeezed shut, her body still trembling in reaction. Finally she let out a low groan.
He’d been right, so right. She’d behaved with the utmost impropriety again. She should have closed her eyes the very second she realized he wasn’t fully dressed. Instead she’d let that splendid male body mesmerize her into doing the unthinkable again, staring at him, “eating him with her eyes,” as he’d so crudely put it. But that was just what she’d done, without thought, without a care that he was watching her do it.
It was no wonder he’d offered to take his trousers off for her. How could she blame him after she’d stared the longest at that part of him? All he’d done was read her mind, because
she had wanted to see what was under those trousers.
His appendage of procreation had seemed so huge, and she’d felt it later, actually felt it right through the thickness of her skirt, pressed hard at the juncture of her thighs. The feeling it had caused at the touch of it there, fear, yes, but also the most exhilarating sensation, starting at the point he was touching and spreading, rushing, tingling to the far extremities of her body. That was something she wished she hadn’t discovered, that, and that other feeling that had come in her belly the second time he kissed her.
Megan groaned again and pushed herself away from the door to pace the floor in her agitation. None of it should have happened. All she’d wanted to do was make friends with the stallion so she could eventually ride him. She’d had no desire to come across Devlin Jefferys, just the opposite, which was why she’d gone to the stable so early, hours before her usual time, because no one would be up to see her.
It had been a good plan, foiled only by a damned door latch that wouldn’t close—and a light sleeper. She’d been whispering to the horse, for God’s sake. That shouldn’t have awakened Devlin, even with his door open. But he’d said the sound of her voice woke him. He’d also said he’d gone to bed thinking of her. Had he really? Likely not. He said so many outrageous things, after all, that half of them had to be lies just meant to shock her, for that man dearly loved to shock her.
She stopped pacing, drawn against her will to the window that overlooked the side yard—and the stable. It was set far back behind the house, but still to the side of it, so she could see the entrance clearly and anyone arriving or leaving. She heard a horse now, and expected to see Timmy, the stableboy, arriving on the old nag he rode to work each day. Instead the black stallion burst out of the stable with Devlin on his back.