He was admiring her tight backside when she suddenly darted inside a room at end of the hall. They had walked some distance from the center of the celebration. The door didn’t shut but fell against the hinge slightly ajar.
An invitation if he’d ever seen one.
Never one to spoil a chance at fun, or an opportunity, Patrick pushed the door open using the tip of his cane. The room was dark save for a dim glow radiating from a lamp in the corner. He stepped inside, heard the door close behind him with a decisive snap, and felt a female form press into his back.
Never to be left in a vulnerable position, Patrick turned. He stepped into her making her backpedal until the door stopped her retreat. Her eyes flared in surprise and her hands flew up to curl in his jacket as he bared down on her.
He turned the lock on the door.
Klunk.
It was only them now in this quiet space far from everyone else. He looked into her eyes and saw that they both understood what had just been done.
They were so close he could see the speckles of gold in her eyes. A long time ago their bodies had known each other. Now they were older, more mature. Things changed, people changed.
“Lysse.”
“Patrick,” came her chilly response.
He could feel her body heat. His echoed hers, turning his blood hot. He placed his hand boldly on the outside of her thigh. She didn’t move or appear to take notice, but the moment he began bunching the material up her legs, she grabbed his jacket, nearly hissing. Lord, she made his blood boil like few could.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?” she hissed, fair mad now.
“My title, dearie. That’s Duke Patrick to you.”
“You can take your useless title and go swill a pig.”
The crude, common slur which he’d heard thousands of times spoken from man to man had never fazed him, but now, hearing this lovely woman say the same thing made him burst out laughing. When he could see straight again, she was glaring at him.
The material bunched up high now, he finally placed the tips of his fingers on her thigh and felt soft, warm flesh.
It had been a long time, he thought, his manhood awakening swiftly. It wouldn’t even take long, and with the way she was flushed and panting, he bet he could get her off in even less time. His gaze narrowed dangerously.
She must have seen his expression, for she cut him off before he could so much as make a move. “You don’t have the right to touch me anymore. Patrick.” She purposely didn’t add his title and she looked smug about it. He bit off a grin. “I belong to Lyle now.”
“Lyle,” he scoffed. “I know you’re fucking him, but don’t pretend like you’re on a first name basis with him. You can’t fool me.”
She hunched her shoulders. “Like you would know. Besides, your jealousy reeks.”
He squeezed her thigh in a quick, bruising grip. That got her attention—and a gasp, which, if his ears didn’t fool him, sounded excited. A sound he could still remember hearing, once, a long time ago, panting in his ear.
“I know everything about the king, Lysse. It’s my job. Everything. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. Now remove your hand from my leg.”
“Or else what? Will you scream? Do you think your beloved king will come running to save you?”
Eyes colder than ice stared back at him.
Lesser men would look away. He didn’t.
“No, but I’ll pull the trigger on this.”
The unmistakable iron-cold prod of a pistol barrel was shoved deep into his stomach, and brought him back to rational thought. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a pistol drawn on him. The silver-made bullets hurt like hell with even the slightest grazing wound. Everyone used the silver-made bullets for protection from their worst enemy.
The pistols were useless at any distance more than a couple feet.
Clever girl.
At such close range, she’d drop him like a heavy sack of grain. And her smug grin said she knew it too.
He took a step back from her while lifting his hands to face her. His cane dangled from his right wrist by a thin leather strap. His own silver blade hung inside, thin but deadly, if he required it. “Easy there, dove. No need for violence. Tonight is supposed to be a night for celebration and remembrance.”
Soft laughter trickled over him. “You don’t have to tell me that.” Her pistol arm remained unwavering.
He didn’t like this at all; one wrong move and she would lay him out.
She continued, “Now that we’re standing on even ground, tell me why you followed me.”
“Like you really need to ask,” he drawled, letting his eyes glide meaningfully down her body.