The words should have made her relaxed, yet the happiness and relief failed to arrive.
The man was engaged. Of course he wouldn't be interested in a woman like her, even if it was late at night, and even if they shared a room by themselves. Likely his fiancée was everything Fiona was not. Likely his intended was pretty, actually pretty, and not just if one imagined that curves had a certain charm. Likely she had hair that did not stray all over the place, and likely if she were to stop a coach to warn it about an impediment in its path, the driver would not assume her to be a highwaywoman.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, and fought to keep her breath steady and not to dwell on the fact that she was alone with the handsomest man she'd ever seen, and he was spending the time utterly uninterested in her.
They'd kissed, but only after a man had implied he wasn't masculine enough to do so. It hadn't meant anything at all to him.
Loretta Van Lochen's women had to fight to keep their virtue, but that was a burden Fiona would not experience.
Chapter Ten
The warm scent of vanilla wafted over him. He nestled closer into soft curves, lulled by the even breathing of-
Someone who wasn't him.
His eyes flickered open. A cascade of auburn curls met his eyes.
Fiona.
The events from last night swirled in his mind, and he gazed at the highwaywoman, the cause of all this dreadfulness, as she slept.
Except-
She wasn't dreadful. Not really.
That kiss had certainly not been dreadful.
Though he'd known that already, had fought the urge to rest his gaze on her too often yesterday.
She was a highwaywoman, one who had introduced herself as The Scarlet Demon, and yet his mind compared her favorably to other women he had met. His cock twitched at a memory of warm lips against his own.
Blast.
Better not to linger on her much more. He forced his gaze away, though his mind was still filled with the image of the soft curves of a woman's body.
His arms encircled her, pressed against her rounded body. And his rod-Zeus, his rod stood firm to attention, like the most formidable soldier. Its helmet pressed against her bottom, and he longed for nothing more than to free it of the constraints of his pantaloons, and to lift the woman's dress and-
His chest constricted as images of him plunging into warm flesh soared through his mind. Long legs would spread, rounded thighs would part, and his rod would lunge into her silky folds. The urge to groan, to sweep her curved body closer against him, and-
He craved her.
The thought was ridiculous. A fantasy born of having been too long without a woman. Simple proof that he should marry Lady Cordelia, so his life could mold to the demands of the ton, and he would be relieved of these strange, unwanted urges.
By Zeus, the woman called herself the Scarlet Demon. She was nothing to be yearned for. And yet-he struggled to resist his desire.
She was so bloody near. She lay in his arms, the picture of innocence. His fingers grazed her chest, and images of luscious mounds surged through him. Would her peaks be tawny or rosy? Would they be thick or slender? And what-Zeus, what would they feel like in his mouth? He wanted to suck her rounded breasts. He wanted to lick his way to her zeniths, and to feel them tighten inside his mouth.
Blood surged to his rod. It was thicker, firmer than ever before. His soldier strained inside his pantaloons, and he fought the urge for friction.
Her breasts tantalized him. Would she wake if he pressed his hands against them? If he traced their shape with his fingers? If-Zeus-he slipped them inside her dress, so he could cup bare globes, brush his fingers over her peaks? Delve his fingers further under, so he might pierce her most sacred mound? Thrust them into her flesh as she arched and moaned against him?
The vision nearly shattered him, and he forced a space between their bodies, even though every part of his being seemed to scream at him that his action was foolish. He'd promised that he wouldn't take advantage of her, he'd scoffed at the very notion that he would want to, and yet even then, ever since their kiss and perhaps before, he'd been frustratingly aware of her every movement.
She challenged him. That was it. Simple. Obviously it was perfectly natural that his mind might leap toward the forbidden. He waited for relief to surge over him at the realization, but it never came. Nothing about the woman beside him was simple.
His rod ached and his ballocks tightened. He yearned to spill his seed inside her and tangle his fingers in her long locks.
His stomach stiffened. Obviously the dowager was right. How could he attempt to fulfill all the responsibilities of being a duke if his mind was occupied with conjuring up illicit acts?
He pressed his lips together and glided his arm from underneath her head, removing himself from all possibilities of pleasure. The woman swiveled her head toward him for a moment, and he froze.
But she was still asleep. Thankfully.
She'd removed the shabby cloak, and at some point she must have scrubbed her face.
His gaze roamed the planes of her face. Pink tinged the apple cheeks he longed to trace, and long lashes swooped downward. A liberal distribution of freckles scattered around the well-formed composition of her face. Her nose swung up slightly, lending her an almost innocent air, and now that she no longer directed a knife at him, he could see that she must only be in her early twenties. Plump lips, slightly parted, were inches from him, and he longed to narrow the space between them. He longed to swoop his lips against hers, continue where they'd stopped last night.
Instead he yanked his arm away from her.
She woke up.
Green eyes flickered open, and he scrambled away, wobbling as he remembered his wooden leg too late. He rolled from the bed, and his body slammed against hard floorboards.
"Percival!"
The next moment she peered over the bed, and he forced his gaze to rest on her widened eyes and rounded mouth.
Not the sweet dip of her cleavage as she dangled over him.
Not at all.
He would not peek at the tops of her rounded breasts.
No matter how terribly tempting they were.
He refused to.
The woman's grey dress had seemed everything proper, absurd for a highwaywoman, though he supposed the cold and an urge to blend into the night may have influenced her choice of attire.
But there was absolutely nothing proper about the vision before him. His rod ached, and he rolled over. He would not let the woman see how she affected him. Sheets rustled above him.
"You fell off the bed."
"Yes." His heartbeat quickened, and he waited for his erection to subside.
"Let me help you."
"No need." He uttered an unmanly squeak.
She clambered from the bed, and for a blissful moment slim ankles flashed before him. Fiona bent down, offering him a hand, and he squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to contemplate every vile vision he'd seen at war, before he allowed his hand to press against her warmer one.
Heat prickled against the back of his neck, moving toward his cheekbones, and he swiveled away. He clutched hold of one of the thick dark beams that crisscrossed the room, as if the timber protected it from tumbling onto the floor below, and he flung his gaze. Sunshine lit up shabby tables and flimsy lace curtains, and dust fluttered in the long rays.
A faded painting of a buxom milk maiden and her shepherd suitor hung in the room, reminding him that this was meant to be the nicest room in the whole bloody tavern. The milk maiden and shepherd seemed to look adoringly at each other, oblivious to the manner in which long strands of uncut grass clung to their clothes.
"I suppose that's a way to wake up." She let out a throaty laugh, and he swiveled to find the scarlet-haired woman-Fiona-peering at him.
Her red hair swept over her shoulders now, crowning her head in a manner more striking than the finest hairstyle of any of the swarm of blonde and brunette debutantes, their locks tamed into a familiar array of shapes. A strand of auburn hair fell over her eyes, and he fought a strange urge to brush the strand away and an instinct to ponder whether the lock might feel silky beneath his touch.
His jaw set. Of course it would feel like hemp, he reminded himself. Only with none of the otherworldly advantages of the sometimes drug. Of course.
His unwanted thoughts twisted his stomach, and his heart pulsated with the vigor of one of those Russian pianists, pounding the keys into a thrilling melody.
"How was your night?" Fiona smoothed her dress, unaware of the manner in which her hands caused her curves to be emphasized.
He forced his gaze away. "Uncomfortable. I've always favored a proper bed to blankets on a floor. But shouldn't you know that, dearest wife?"