The hell with it. He had never been very good at being a gentleman. He closed the door and stepped toward the little skunk’s basket, not looking back at the bed—and uttered an involuntary curse.
The basket contained the blighted tomcat Parth had insisted on bringing back from the river. The cat fixed an eye on Alaric, and his single ear flattened against his head as he emitted a threatening rumble that sounded like a far-off thunderstorm.
Nestled in the center of a half-circle of matted orange fur was Sweetpea, her nose resting peacefully on one of the cat’s paws. Alaric took a step closer and the tom’s mangy tail rose in the air and thumped down once.
Right.
He emptied the contents of the handkerchief into the basket and stepped away.
Willa was his, though she didn’t know it. And didn’t believe it. Possibly didn’t want him.
No, she did want him. She’d trembled all over when he kissed her. Her eyes had clung to his chest when he walked from the water. They had dipped below his waist, and stayed there when he emerged in skintight, wet breeches. Since he had a constant cockstand around her, she had had an eyeful.
Alaric went over to the bed and carefully lowered himself until he lay alongside her. Then he ran his hand down the riotous curls that fell over Willa’s shoulders. He didn’t let himself look below her neck.
Gaping at a woman while she slept was distasteful, but brushing his lips along the warm curve of her cheek?
Waking her up?
“Evie,” he whispered, hoping his voice would drift into her dreams, rather than startle her.
“Mmmm,” she sighed.
Mine, said the beats of his heart.
“May I kiss you?”
She didn’t respond, so he slid his lips past the arch of her cheekbone to the silky gloss of her hair, and then to the delicate pink curve of her small ear. He was still kissing her ear when she made a happy sound and curled against him.
Alaric froze. His blood was pounding through his body and his cock was so stiff that it hurt.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“You’re talking,” she said, sounding inebriated. “For …” Her voice drifted away and she turned onto her back.
“Evie,” Alaric said, after a few seconds’ thought informed him a gentleman would not ease her chemise farther up her leg.
He had to wake her. He propped himself up on one elbow, kissing her face in earnest, kissing her forehead, the small bridge of her nose, the rounded point of her chin.
She sighed, opening her lips. He was about to kiss her, really kiss her, when he realized that if he was kissing Willa Everett, he wanted her to be fully aware.
He nipped her bottom lip and whispered, “Wake up.”
She sighed and one hand flattened against his chest. He watched in amusement as her fingers flexed …
Her eyes popped open.
Another woman might have yelped or even screamed.
But Willa looked at him and said sleepily, “Alaric, what are you doing in my bed?”
“Lying next to you.” He met her eyes just long enough to make sure that she understood he wasn’t a figment of her imagination—and that she had no intention of pushing him out of her bed.
Her blue eyes were no longer dreamy, but curious. Desirous. He bent over and kissed her hard and hungrily, his fingers sinking into her curls.
To his enormous satisfaction, Willa wound her arms around his neck as if he’d woken her like this a hundred times before. Which he had every intention of doing. A silent promise arrowed through him.
He would do whatever it took to convince her that he was the only man who would ever wake her with a kiss.
Chapter Twenty-four
Willa threw herself into Alaric’s kiss the way a moth throws itself at a candle.
His kiss had a hint of the unknown, and at the same time, there was something familiar about it. He smelled a bit like the river, and a lot like lemon soap. He tasted a bit like Alaric and a lot like spearmint. He felt …
Bringing her hands down from his neck and resting them on his shoulders fogged her brain and she couldn’t come up with a suitable comparison. Sleek muscles flexed under her hands and her pulse quickened.
“I …” she gasped.
Alaric pulled himself away with a mumbled word.
“What did you just say?” she asked.
“I can’t repeat it in a lady’s presence.” That was a wicked smile. Sinful.
“You already said it, so you might as well repeat it.”
“A man can take only so many liberties in one day,” Alaric told her. His face was so close to hers that she could see that his eyelashes, a dark golden brown, turned to pure gold at the tips.
She brushed his right eyelash with a finger. “They are beautiful.”
“What?”
“Your eyelashes. They’re two colors.”
He propped himself up on one elbow. “Yours are mink brown, and they curl up at the ends.”
“Sometimes I color them black.” Willa was trying hard to be casual under non-casual circumstances, but it was difficult. Her legs were trembling, for one thing, and she felt as if she were growing more rosy by the moment.
His eyes were ranging over her face, and although she didn’t know what he was thinking, she knew he approved.
Willa cleared her throat, thinking it was time she suggest that he lever himself into a standing position and leave.
He must have seen it in her eyes, because he promptly kissed her again. She hadn’t had much experience with this sort of kissing—the kind that seared her bones and her lungs with heat and made her feel breathless and hungry for more.
One kiss led to another, or perhaps it was all the same kiss. After a while, Alaric wound his fingers back into her hair. Willa decided he was ensuring that he didn’t run his hands down her thighs, or over her breasts, or any of the places that were aching for his touch.
“Alaric,” she murmured, the word sounding unnervingly like a plea.
His shoulders bunched under her fingers as the delicious weight of his chest lifted away. His eyes had turned the steely blue of the ocean where it’s deep and cold.
But his eyes were not cold.
“Evie,” he answered, giving her a small, secret smile.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” If they were to keep kissing, she had to—to understand him better.
“Anything.”
“What kept you away from England for so long?”
He had been watching her, but as he thought about her question, he turned onto his back and stared at the stone ceiling far above them.
“Horatius died,” he said, his voice flattening. “I couldn’t imagine the castle without him. I loathed Lindow Moss because he lost his life there. I didn’t come home because it allowed me to pretend he wasn’t dead. That everyone I loved was still here.”
“I’m sorry,” Willa said, carefully. “I’ve heard of him, but we never met.”
A large, warm hand caught hers and held it against his chest. “I don’t think you would have liked him, at least, not until you came to know him very well.”
“Certainly I would have,” Willa said stoutly.
His eyes glinted at her, full of laughter. “Why do people always assume that the dead must have been delightful? Horatius was a royal ass. I loved him, but you wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t know my preferences,” Willa said.
“I know you do not like pretentious people. The color of your eyes changes when you think someone is being absurd. Horatius was often absurd.”
Since she’d never seen her eyes in that circumstance, she could hardly counter his observation.
“He was as stuffed full of virtue as a pincushion is with pins,” Alaric continued, his hand pressing hers tightly against his chest. “He was so intent on perfection that his halo gleamed. If there’s a heaven, he’s up there with a banner establishing that his is the topmost cloud. His harp is the largest.”
“You wouldn’t want him to be on a basement cloud,” Willa pointed out. “May I ask how he died? I mean, I know he died in Lindow Moss, but what happened?”
Alaric turned his head again and met her eyes. “Foolishness. It’s not impossible to cross the bog at night, but he was drunk.”
Willa’s fingers tightened on the warm muscles layering his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning over and kissing his jaw.
“He was such a fool,” Alaric said. “If you ever find yourself caught in the bog, don’t move until you’re rescued.” His voice was sad, with a tinge of anger. “We couldn’t even recover his body. He has a gravestone, but the coffin was empty.”
“For years, I was furious at my parents for dying and leaving me,” Willa offered.
“Raging at the dead is useless,” Alaric said.
“I suppose it feels better to be distracted by foreign places.”
Alaric rolled again and she found herself on her back.
“This is so improper,” she gasped. “You must leave.”
“I know,” Alaric said, grinning at her. “But we’re getting married, so it’s all right.”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” she countered.
“I’ve already begun providing for you. I brought Sweetpea roly-polies.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made Willa’s heart skip a beat. It was intoxicating.
She sat up and pushed her chemise back down her legs. “You must leave, Alaric.”