She had pushed him too far.
The rag dropped from Vivien’s nerveless fingers. One hand resting on the mare’s silken mane, she felt her heart thudding with alarm and something darker, something wild and shameful.
In the moment it took for Michael Kenyon to stride across the temple, a flicker of lightning carved his features into sharp relief. He looked like a god from ancient Greece in the book she had borrowed from his library. An angry, vengeful god who frightened her.
A handsome, powerful god who enthralled her.
Catching her by the arm, he marched her up the marble steps and into the dimness of the temple. The drumming of the rain and their footsteps intruded on the peace of the sanctuary. In one swift glance, she took in a stone bench and a statue of a robe-draped goddess in the gloom of an alcove. Dried leaves scattered the floor, crunching beneath their shoes.
His harsh breathing brought her gaze back to his face, to the tautness of his cheekbones and the thinning of his lips. His nostrils flared like a stallion scenting its mate. A fervent intensity glittered in his blue eyes, an emotion she couldn’t quite fathom. Awareness of him ignited a flame of yearning in her breast.
A fire in the heart.
A fire that had never burned for any man of the Rom. A fire she must never feel for this domineering gorgio lord who called her a thief. He had been relentlessly pursuing her for a week now. And she was horrified by the ungovernable response of her body to his.
She attempted a low, husky laugh. “Michael, I didn’t mean to insult you—”
Before she could finish, he hauled her against him, clamping her to the hard length of his body and lowering his mouth to hers. She squirmed against his embrace, but he held the back of her head firmly in his palm so she could not turn away. Then she no longer wanted to turn away. His kiss made her weak at the knees, and she clung to him, aware of the sculpted muscles beneath her fingertips, the stimulating scents of rain and man, the compelling taste of his mouth.
Dear God, his mouth.
Hard and hungry, it moved over hers as if to consume her. She wanted to be consumed by him, to give herself up to the appalling pleasure of a man’s lips on hers. And not just any man. Michael.
Alone in her bed, she had dreamed of his embrace, tame fantasies in which he held her close, declaring his adoration, his manner tender and worshipful. She would refuse him, of course, and he would grovel at her feet. She would laugh to see him reduced to abject misery over the woman he regarded as far beneath his exalted self.
But never had she imagined that reality could plunge her into an abyss of passion.
Her breath caught in something halfway between a gasp and a moan, and he took advantage, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. That startling stroking sent heat down to the deepest, most intimate part of her. His kiss demanded, seduced, aroused, but somehow didn’t satisfy. She wanted something more from him, something that eluded her.
Then he performed an act even more outrageous. He put his hand on her breast, cupping her over the riding habit, circling his thumb over the peak until she almost swooned from waves of delirious pleasure. In a rational part of herself, she knew she ought not allow him such liberties. Yet he touched a madness in her that defied all common sense.
Giddy, she was aware of him tilting her backward onto the cold stone bench, never breaking the ravenous contact of their mouths. Before she knew quite how it happened, he’d pushed up her skirt and opened her legs so that her feet slipped to either side of the bench. He promptly settled himself atop her, his heavy weight trapping her in place. Through his breeches, she felt a distinctively hard ridge press against her most vulnerable place. And for one riveting moment, she experienced a rush of carnal desire more powerful than anything she had ever known. He moved his body against hers and she arched to him, wanting, craving, desiring him with mindless fervor.
Then his hand went to her hip, stole beneath her hem, and fondled her bare thigh. Even as she nearly swooned with wanting, the realization of his intent pierced her sensual haze.
This gorgio intended to take her innocence. To dishonor her. To use her for his own pleasure.
Slapped by repugnance, she turned her head from his kiss and thrust her hands at his shoulders. “No!”
“Yes. You want this. You want me.”
He caught her face and kissed her again, a dominating kiss that only increased her panic. Though she bucked and twisted, she couldn’t dislodge his solid body. She felt as if she were suffocating. He would take her against her will. He would force her.
Frantic with fear, Vivien reacted with a vengeance. She sank her teeth in his lower lip.
He reared back, roaring in outrage, his hand clapped to his mouth. “What the devil—!”
She scrambled out from under him and stood up unsteadily, backing away and catching her balance by flattening her palm against a stone pillar. Her shaky legs threatened to buckle. Rain splashed musically from the roof, and a gust of cold damp air cooled her overheated skin.
Her breath shuddering, she burst out, “Stinking gorgio. How dare you treat me so!”
“You bit me, dammit.” Michael shot to his feet, drawing back his hand and grimacing at the blood smeared there. He whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed gingerly at his mouth. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“I told you to stop. I won’t be your whore.”
“You liked what we were doing. You even spread your legs for me.”
Vivien flushed at his crude insult. “Curse your conceit. I didn’t realize your intentions—not at first.”
“You did, indeed. No innocent girl kisses the way you just did.” His hair mussed and damp, he lowered his lashes slightly, all sulky, sinful man. His chest heaved with heavy breaths. In a menacing murmur, he said, “You were wild for me, Vivien. You were moaning with pleasure.”
Was that true? Had her lewd behavior encouraged him? Mortified and confused, she felt the pulsebeat of passion deep within her. The memory of his kiss burned in her, a shameful reminder of her ardent response. She had craved the pressure of his body against hers. She had wanted his hands on her breasts and between her legs. She still desired his masterful touch...
No! Her only mistake had been to think it would be easy to manage Michael Kenyon, to tease him into falling in love so that she might have the pleasure of spurning him. The overconfident ass had no right to take from her what she refused to give. To steal what belonged to her husband someday—if ever she could respect any man enough to marry him.
“You’ll never find out how wrong you are,” she snapped. “Because you will never again touch me.”
Michael watched her, his gaze bold. As if even now he were plotting ways to seduce her. “You don’t mean that.”
With despicable confidence, he sauntered toward her. Panic seized her by the throat. He would ravish her again!
Pivoting, Vivien dashed for the mare. She hiked up her skirt, but couldn’t quite vault herself into the awkward sidesaddle. Curse these gorgio trappings! She would ride his horse instead.
She started to turn. Too late.
His approach sounded on the marble steps behind her. “Where are you going?” he said sharply. “It’s still raining.”
She ducked past the mare and ran onto the moor, her only thought to reach the safety of the Dower House. Cold droplets wet her face. Mud sucked at her half-boots. The long skirts hampered her, tangling in her legs.
His heavy footsteps pounded behind her. He called out her name, his voice brusque, angry. In desperation, she increased her pace, slipping and sliding on the spongy turf. She shoved a strand of hair out of her eyes. The breath seared her lungs. Develesa! He was closing in on her.
Pushing herself harder, she neared a grove of oaks. But his strong fingers grasped at her arm. In a frenzy, she yanked herself free. If she couldn’t outpace him, she could fight.
Snatching up a stout stick from the ground, she swung toward him, brandishing the weapon. “Don’t!” she gasped out. “Don’t come near me.”
The marquess stopped, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. He watched her warily as if her seriousness finally had broken through his male arrogance. “You’re afraid of me.”
“Curse you! I’ll fight you to the death.”
“For Christ’s sake. I’d never harm a woman.”
“You’d force me to lie with you.” She tasted a bitter fear in her throat. “But I’ll kill you first. I swear it!”
Michael regarded her without moving. A lock of damp hair had slipped onto his brow, giving him the aspect of a pirate. The downpour had slowed to a drizzle, and lightning flickered far in the distance. A spatter of cold rain struck her back, and she shivered as much from awareness of their isolation as from the chill. Her teeth chattered, but she clamped them together to hide her fear. She should never have chanced being alone with this gorgio.
Then, to her amazement, he made a formal bow, right leg thrust out, one hand tucked behind his back. “Pray forgive me for alarming you. Your beauty tempted me beyond all rational judgment.”
Michael thought her beautiful.
Resisting an insidious softening, Vivien stared suspiciously at him. The almighty marquess was apologizing to her. He was insincere, of course, but at least his gentlemanly effort gave her a small sense of satisfaction.
She could still taste his kiss. She could still feel his broad, hard body covering hers. His mouth had moved hungrily, his hands caressing, arousing an unsatisfied yearning for more. Even now, knowing his base intentions, she experienced the treacherous weakness of desire.
She didn’t understand herself. How could she feel anything but contempt for this despotic lord who used women and then discarded them? The man who believed her a thief?
When he took a step toward her, Vivien pointed the branch like a spear. Her arms quivered, and she fought to hold them steady. “Stay back,” she snapped. “Do you think I trust your apologies?”
“I think you’re a high-spirited woman with a penchant for violence. Now put that down.”
She shook her head. “Beware, milord. I know many ways to subdue a man. Gypsy ways.” Fixing her gaze on him, she sent him the menacing look that always worked on troublesome gorgios who tried to cheat the Rom.
His mouth curved into a sardonic grin; then he winced, no doubt pained by his puffy lip. With the slow movements he might use around a skittish filly, he shrugged out of his charcoal-gray coat. “Put this on,” he said. “You’re wet and shivering.”
It was a trick. An excuse to come nearer.
As he closed the distance between them, she held the stick up in warning. “No! I want nothing of yours.”
“You’re getting it anyway,” he said, and draped the garment around her shoulders.
As he stepped back, she automatically reached up with one hand to catch the lapels and keep the coat from sliding off. The cloth carried his heat and scent, and she was hard-pressed not to snuggle her face into it and breathe deeply, to rub her cheek against the smooth texture. She had the uncanny sensation of being enveloped in a loving embrace. His embrace.
He could not have calculated a more effective way to steal past her guard.
“There now,” he said, those blue eyes bewitching her. “I want you to remember that I desire you. I’ll dream of your soft lips.”
Stupefied, Vivien watched as he turned around and started back toward the temple. The damp white shirt was molded to his magnificent physique, and buckskin breeches and knee-high boots outlined his powerful legs. Against all sanity, she felt her fear and anger dissolve beneath a stirring of warmth.
I’ll dream of your soft lips.
She should walk to the Dower House. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Michael Kenyon. But if he’d wanted to overpower her, he could have done so. Besides, if he was on horseback, it made no sense for her to be on foot and vulnerable. So after a moment’s hesitation, she dropped the stick, clapped the dirt from her hands, and marched after Michael.
Vigilant for any false moves, she let him boost her up onto her mount. He acted the perfect gentleman, his touch impersonal, his manner polite. He refused her attempt to return his coat. The misting rain cooled her hot cheeks. But nothing, not even the uncomfortable sidesaddle, could cool the furtive excitement that burned in her blood.
I’ll dream of your soft lips.
She hid her flustered confusion behind an aloof expression as they rode over the wet earth. Michael Kenyon didn’t need to know how he’d bewitched her with that one remark. Nor did he need to know she felt an appalling attraction to the man who had tried to force her to his will. The gorgio lord she could never, ever love.
The mud pulled at the mare’s hooves, and Vivien concentrated on guiding the animal around the worst puddles. She kept a prudent distance from Michael, fearing the dangerous effects of his charm. Like the aftermath of lightning, the memory of his kiss glowed within her, and for the first time, she wasn’t indifferent to a man’s body.
His form felt so different from hers, hard and brawny, capable of pleasuring a woman. She couldn’t help wondering how he looked beneath his clothing, if his chest was smooth or furred with black hair, if his skin was pale or the same bronzed hue as his face and hands. To her shame, she wanted to gush with admiration like all those silly girls of the Rom, gazing moon-eyed at their suitors.
I’ll dream of your soft lips.
She must never forget his true opinion of her. Michael Kenyon thought her a common thief. He had almost ravished her, and she had almost succumbed. She didn’t understand why such a man could arouse a woman’s longings in her.
Before she had time to sort through the quagmire of her feelings, Vivien heard Michael utter a muffled curse. Reining in the bay gelding at the top of a hill, he frowned past Stokeford Abbey, its large stone facade visible through the dripping trees, and toward the winding river and the Dower House.
She stopped nearby, regarding him uneasily. “What is it?”
He made no response. Following his gaze, she saw a stately black coach trundle along the curved drive leading to the Dower House. The driver sat hunched on the top seat, and two crimson-clad footmen clung to the rear of the vehicle. Even from a distance, the servants looked drenched.
“Bloody damn,” Michael snarled in an undertone. “Damn her.”
“Who?”
“My grandmother. By God, she’ll pay for this.” He flashed Vivien a look stark with fury and something else, something dark and fearful. “Stay here. I won’t have you involved in this.” Then he took off like a shot, thundering down the hill toward the bridge, clods of earth flying in his wake.