Pitch Imperfect(66)

“Time for bed,” he rasped.

He carried her up the wide staircase and onto the landing, her hand around the back of his neck, breasts pressed into his chest. Cold fingertips traced the shadow on his jaw. “You’re so prickly.” She speared a hand through his hair. “Soft, like a bunny rabbit.”

“You’re drunk, lass, else you’d no’ be calling me soft.”

And because he couldn’t help it, he kissed her smiling lips. Carrying her down the long corridor, he tried to keep his need for her in check. Anjuli didn’t make it easy. When he reached her bedroom she found his hard nipple and bit through his shirt, sucking him into her mouth.

“Jesus,” he hissed, as the pleasure hit his cock.

Rob lowered her onto the bed, but she didn’t let go. She clutched his neck and brought him down on top of her. “Stay with me, Rob. I want you inside me, just one more time.”

With a superhuman effort Rob unclasped her hands and stood up. He raked a hand through his hair and stared at her full, inviting body. “Damn it, Anjuli, you’re enough to test any man’s resolve, but I’m no’ making the same mistakes again. I’m going to make love to you when you’re sober and sure that it’s me you want.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” she whispered. “That’s the problem.”

Fierce, savage joy raced through his body. How easy it would be to give them both release, to pull up her nightgown and feel her underneath him. He would taste her, savour her, sheath himself inside her and find peace. A new start with no holding back. His body was primed, but then so was his mind. He hadn’t forgotten what she’d said at the ceilidh.

Why had she lied to him in London and why did she say she couldn’t love anyone again? Not wouldn’t but couldn’t.

He had to find out. Whatever Anjuli was hiding was destroying her. He knew it with a basic, instinctive knowledge grounded in his love for her, flowing through his veins even stronger than his desire.

“Tell me what’s wrong, lass,” he said, holding her wrists when she would have reached out to touch him.

“It’s my fault,” she groaned drunkenly.

Her head twisted side to side as if she were in pain. Her words slurred beyond coherency and she muttered about a crystal sparrow flying away. Mac’s name and Ash’s and something about Castle Manor’s stolen building supplies.

“The money...I have to tell you...”

Rob covered her with the duvet and tucked it around her body. He leaned over to kiss her lips. “Wheesht now, lass. We’ll talk when I get back.”

And then I’m going to make love to you.

* * *

Sunlight streamed through the oriel window, splitting Anjuli’s headache into painful streaks of red, blue and gold. She shielded her eyes and went down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her Italian coffeemaker was loaded and ready on the stovetop and a loaf of brown bread sat on the table next to a few jams and cereal boxes. Under the butter dish, a small square of white paper with handwriting she recognised.

Anjuli,

On mounted steed the laired will try

To reach his lady in castle high

...or he’ll phone.

Black Douglas

Rob had always been a keen reader, but as for writing, his emails were curt missives, his messages straightforward. But his notes...bad poetry? She put the square in her pocket, perplexed. One thing was clear though, those four lines were irrefutable proof last night had not been a dream. Rob had indeed come over, fed her and then—she wouldn’t think about it until she was full of strong, black coffee. Toast slathered in butter, topped with mango chutney, spicy and sweet as sin.

She had begged him to make love to her. Again.

She was a slut, a horny drunk who couldn’t control herself around Rob. Her repeat performance must have disgusted him, reminded him of her behaviour in London. Anjuli groaned, and the sound vibrated in her ears, exacerbating the throb in her head. She finished her coffee and toast and went to open the windows in the morning room, stopping abruptly at the doorway. Rob had been busy last night, but not with her. He’d unpacked two boxes of books, built her flat-pack bookcase and organised the novels onto the shelves.

Philippa Gregory and Anya Seton were on the top, George R. R. Martin and Stephen King in the middle and the bottom shelf—Anjuli blushed as she skimmed the spines. Those paperbacks were neatly lined up in alphabetical order. The second book, Border Lord’s Captive, was misaligned. On the cover, a dark, bare-chested brute of a man in a Lindsey kilt sat atop a black stallion, a buxom blonde clinging to his shoulders. Cheeks heating, Anjuli pulled the crinkled paper out of her pocket and compared it to the book’s shoutline.