LITMIR.BIZ

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gaze. “Tell me.”

      “That, sir, is none of your concern.” Struggling, she was able to put a small amount of distance between them. It was not enough to restore her composure. “How did you know where to find me?” she demanded.

      “I followed you. Now, tell me, do you dream of things, see things when you have the headaches?”

      “Yes,” she whispered, hating to admit it. But something in his gaze compelled her to the truth. It drew her in, wrapped her securely in its hold. Whatever passed between them, Isabella knew—bone deep—soul deep—that Black would never tell another person. Her secrets would be safe with him. But was she?

      “And that’s the reason for the medicine, so that you’ll sleep so deeply you won’t dream?”

      She nodded, held his stare, and braved the question that was burning in her mind. The one she could not suppress. The one question she needed to hear—yet feared—to have answered. “Why did you follow me?”

      He traced her cheeks with his fingertips; the soft kidskin leather gliding along her flesh felt decadent and wicked. When his leather-covered thumb brushed her bottom lip, parting her lips with a gentle but seductive sweep she inhaled sharply, let her lashes flicker and absorbed the erotic swipe of his finger against her mouth. “Can you not guess why?”

      She shook her head, intoxicated by the scent of leather and man, and the pressure of his thumb as he pressed on her lip, parting them farther until the pad of his thumb swept across the damp tissue inside her lip.

      “I wanted you to myself. Even if only for a few minutes.”

      She swallowed hard, and shivered as his free hand came up, only to wrap gently around her throat, while his thumb brushed over her bounding pulse. Did he know how dangerous and seductive the leather felt against her? Did he know that behind her closed lashes she imagined how the black leather must look against her pale skin—darkness and light—sin and purity. Could he tell that she was even now imagining him pulling his gloves from his hands and putting his skin against hers—his mouth to her throat?

      “And Mr. Knighton?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

      His thumb swept over her rapidly bounding pulse, brushing, lulling as his voice dropped to a sinful huskiness. “I would be lying if I said it was out of the goodness of my heart.”

      “Then what would be the truth?”

      “To part you from him for the next few weeks while he studies for his first degree.”

      Her lashes fluttered and she gazed up at him through a haze of sensation that felt the way it did when the effects of her tonic began to take hold—but only better. It was sensual. Euphoric. And utterly improper. “I must remind you that I am being courted, my lord.”

      “He has made you no offer of marriage, has he?” She flushed and looked away, but he bent his head to catch her gaze, and lowered his mouth close to hers. His thumb was now brushing the contour of her bottom lip. “Has he given you any indication of his desire?”

      Her heart was beating hard, and her hand, good Lord, her hand had come up and her fingers were brushing through Black’s long hair. His eyes closed, and then they slowly opened, the green flecks more brilliant than before, making his pale blue eyes more turquoise.

      “Has he given you a taste of pleasure? A glimpse of what you might find in his arms?”

      “No,” she breathed, the word nothing but a husky pant.

      He brushed her lips once more with his thumb, the leather sliding smoothly along her dampened mouth, parting her lips until she could feel the edge of his leather-encased finger on the inside of her lip. But this time it was not slow and sensual, it was more forceful, direct. Dominant. She shivered in response, not a reaction that was of fear, but desire—her body’s instinctive response to his. “Do you know what I would give for a chance to show you what it could be like in mine?”

      Looking deep into his eyes, Isabella licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, her breathing harsh behind her tight corset and the cuirass bodice of her gown. “My lord, this is reckless.”

      “Reckless, dangerous, irresponsible, yes,” he murmured as he pressed against her, his chest slowly, inexorably pushing her backward till she was lying on the carriage bench and he was looming above her. “It is all those things, but it is also unavoidable, inevitable, inescapable.”

      Isabella watched as Lord Black’s face came closer to hers. As if in a dream, she felt her arms go up, supposedly to push him away, but they betrayed her and she felt her hands slide up over his shoulders where her fingertips tangled in his hair. “Inescapable,” she repeated, her voice husky.

      “Yes.” He lowered his mouth slowly to hers. “Wherever you are, I will follow. I will find you, Isabella.”

      “Like Death,” she whispered, her lashes lowering as she awaited his kiss. “He knows where to find those who hide from him.”

      Cold air swept between their bodies, and Isabella’s eyelids flew open, only to see Lord Black abruptly pull himself away from her. Before she could right herself, he was seated once again on the opposite bench, watching her with hooded eyes. “We have arrived at your home, Miss Fairmont,” he announced, his voice no longer filled with the desire she had only seconds before heard. “I bid you good afternoon. May I extend my best wishes for a speedy recovery from your headache.”

      “My lord?” she asked, puzzled, still breathing hard from the kiss he had nearly given her. Had she done something? Been too bold? Should she have put up a fuss, struggled beneath him as she ought to have?

      Their eyes met, and in a swift move, he was before her, his hands clutching her face. “They say that Death is a shadow that always follows a body, but Death will not find you. I vow it. But you will promise me that you will be very careful with your tonic,” he whispered fiercely, “for I couldn’t bear it if Death were called to pay you a visit and forced to steal the roses from your cheeks.”

      “I will,” she whispered back, awed by the severe concern she saw in his expression and heard in his warning.

      “Vow it,” he whispered, angling his head as though he was going to kiss her. “Swear to me, Isabella.”

      “I swear to you.”

      And then Lord Black lowered his mouth to hers, his lips brushing softly, slowly—once, twice—each time they parted more overtop hers until she moaned and he opened her mouth, slipped his tongue inside, devouring her as though he was starved for her.

      She did not know how to return such a kiss. She could not breathe, could not move. Could only luxuriate in the silken feel of his lips moving overtop hers and the sweep of his tongue curling around her own. How enthralling it was to think of him so intimately connected to her. She could feel him seeking, searching, discovering and she wanted to do the same to him, but did not want to end the kiss with her bumbling inexperience, so instead, she allowed him to tutor her, to kiss her, and let his tongue search the depths of her mouth, to lick and probe and listen to the sound of Black’s kiss, his rasping breaths and her soft, wanton moans.

      She had no idea how long he kissed her, but she protested when his kiss became less fervent, and he broke away.

      “Bella,” he rasped between drugging sweeps of his lips and the teasing wetness of his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth. “Reckless, irresponsible, inescapable.”

      “Unavoidable,” she breathed as she kissed him back.

      He clutched her body to his, his hand skating up her side to her ribs, only to rest beneath her breast. Like a wanton, she pressed into him, making him feel her body—the body he had made ache with desire. The body she seemed no longer able to control. He had made it his with this kiss, and now she felt as though she would die if he did not show her how to give her body what it was screaming for.

      She was wound tight, restless, and he knew it, made the tightness more taut as he deepened the kiss, kissing

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