Countess of Scandal by Laurel McKee

on a breath. How young she looked asleep, he thought sadly, young and carefree, like the girl he remembered from Kildare. The girl who would ride and run and kiss with abandon, with no fear. Who would tell him tales of ancient Irish kings and gods, her brown eyes shining with the wonder of it
    Perhaps, deep down inside, they were still that Eliza and Will, and they had found each other again all too briefly tonight But when morning came, Lady Mount Clare and Major Denton would still be waiting. And he still did not know how to stop her headlong tumble into the dangers of rebellion.
    Eliza murmured in her sleep, turning restlessly as if seeking warmth in the cold winter night Will lay back down beside her, gathering her gently in his arms. She settled against his shoulder with a soft sigh.
    He pressed a kiss to her rumpled hair, inhaling deeply of her scent of roses and salt, of clean linen sheets. Her tall body curled into him, as if she felt safe with him.
    "I will keep you safe, Eliza," he whispered, thinking of her follower at the coffeehouse. "Whether you like it or not."
    She stirred at the sound of his words, her eyes slowly blinking open, as if she, too, surfaced from deep dreams. For a moment, she gazed at him with puzzlement, as if she could not quite recall who he was or why he was there. Then she remembered, and a wide smile broke across her face.
    "You're really here," she cried, sitting up beside him as the sheet fell away from her bare breasts. She kissed his cheek, his nose, his mouth. "It was not a dream!"
    "I hope not," Will answered, laughing as she rolled atop him, her legs straddling his hips. He felt himself stirring to life again at the warmth of her body, his penis hardening. He arched up against her. "Does this feel like a dream?"
    "Not at all." She leaned down, her lips finding his for a lingering, exploring kiss. It wasn't desperate, lustful, like their kisses of the night, but full of wonder and welcome. He caressed her shoulders, feeling the fall of her hair over his hands, curling around him to hold him her willing prisoner.
    "It is just... sometimes I did dream of this, while you were gone," she said: She sat up, staring down at him as she traced his features with her fingertips, as if to memorize him. He caught her finger between his lips, suckling at it until she gasped.
    "I dreamed of you, too," he answered, cradling her hand against his cheek. "It was a lonely life in the islands, and at night I would lie awake and stare up at the stars in that hot sky. I would think of you, imagine kissing you by a cold Irish stream. I wondered so often what you did, how you fared."
    She smiled teasingly, sliding her palm along his rough, whiskered cheek, down his neck, tracing a light pattern over his chest. "Were dreams of me all the romance you had, Will? I would vow not"
    He laughed hoarsely, remembering the bored English wives, the French plantation owner's widow, and the pretty milliner. None of them had been able to turn him from his memories, no matter how hard he—or they—tried.
    "There has never been anyone like you, Eliza," he answered truthfully. There never could be anyone like her, with her wild Irish spirit
    She leaned down to press light, alluring kisses over his skin, her tongue tracing the flat, brown disc of his nipple. "And was it worth the wait?" she whispered.
    "Assuredly so," he muttered tightly.
    "Good. I would hate to think you were disappointed." Her mouth slowly trailed lower, over his chest and the sharp arc of his hip, until she reached out to caress his now achingly hard erection. Delicately, teasingly, her fingertips slid down and up again.
    "Eliza..." He groaned, threading his fingers through her hair.
    "Shhh," she whispered. "I want to try something...."
    And then—oh, by the saints!—her mouth closed over him, her tongue tasting him.
    His hips jerked at the hot waves of pleasure, his hands instinctively pressing her closer. It was unlike anything he had ever known, a