hand and wrapped a dark tendril of Emma's hair around the scarred remnant of his finger, then rested his open palm on the column of her throat where her pulse beat a frantic rhythm. And she could not will herself to pull away.
“Tears, Emma? For Delia?” His voice rolled over her, rich and deep and tantalizing. She could smell the faint intermingled scents of sandalwood soap and brandy and man, so tempting and lush, even in now in the moment of her utter distress.
Emma shook her head, dashing at her tears.
“For me, then, Emma. Do you cry for me?” Now his tone was faintly mocking.
“For myself.” She answered with pained honesty, the words insufficient to express the cause of her sorrow. Yes, she cried for Delia, dead these many years. And for Lord Anthony, this beautiful man with his tormented soul. But, most of all she cried for herself. For as she listened to the words he spoke, the stark utterance that painted him a monster, she still could not chase away the near overwhelming urge to press her lips to his, to breathe hope and succor into his bleak world. To ease his pain.
To be the one who could save him.
Emma cried because she was well and truly lost. She might sooner try to save Lucifer himself.
As if he read her deepest thoughts, he angled his head, moving closer until their breath mingled and Emma could feel the beat of his heart against her own. She stood, frozen, a bewildering yearning spilling through her, drawn to him despite the tortured confessions of his soul. Drawn to him because of them. She was certain that he knew of her longing, of the hot need that poured through her veins, the ache that cried out for his touch.
Perhaps her yearning had been there from the first moment when he had touched her in the coach. Or the moment when she had watched him hold Nicky in his arms, smiling down at his son. Mayhap it had grown from each look they exchanged, or each time she had watched from a distance as he bestowed a kindness upon a servant. She did not know. But the craving for him had grown until it writhed to unholy life within her, until she trembled with the force of it.
She had been warned about this from the time she was a small child, told time and again that she must not fall prey to the same mistake as her mother. Dragging in a shuddering breath, she tried to fight the demon of her desire, tried to recall all the reasons that she must beware of Anthony Craven, beware of the terrifying, captivating lure of him.
The full length of his hard body pressed against hers, trapping her between hot man and the cold wall at her back. The smell of his skin undid her, and she moaned softly as she brushed her face against his neck, his jaw. Wrong, so wrong, but the temptation of him made her blood sing. She wriggled against him, aware of the press of his pelvis to hers.
He laughed, low and dark, the sound fully lacking in humor. And she thought he would kiss her now. Oh, please let him press his lips to hers, those lush sensual lips. She moved her thighs together beneath her skirt. The longing to push against his disturbing weight warred with the longing to fist her hands in the fine cloth of his coat and drag him nearer still, to breath the scent of him until he filled her lungs, her heart, her every sense.
Breath hissed from between his teeth. She wondered if he was as overcome as she.
But he did not kiss her. He brought his mouth against her ear, and she was stunned at the hard twist of disappointment that clutched at her.
“Run away, Emma,” he whispered, even as his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing her collarbone. “Does my admission, nay, my confession, not strike the fear of God in you? Fly away from me.”
He made a harsh sound in his throat, and Emma felt the cold rush of air that replaced the warmth of his body as he slapped his open palms against the wall and pushed himself away from her. The chill brought the return of sanity. And the rush of mortification.
“Tears, Emma? For Delia?” His voice rolled over her, rich and deep and tantalizing. She could smell the faint intermingled scents of sandalwood soap and brandy and man, so tempting and lush, even in now in the moment of her utter distress.
Emma shook her head, dashing at her tears.
“For me, then, Emma. Do you cry for me?” Now his tone was faintly mocking.
“For myself.” She answered with pained honesty, the words insufficient to express the cause of her sorrow. Yes, she cried for Delia, dead these many years. And for Lord Anthony, this beautiful man with his tormented soul. But, most of all she cried for herself. For as she listened to the words he spoke, the stark utterance that painted him a monster, she still could not chase away the near overwhelming urge to press her lips to his, to breathe hope and succor into his bleak world. To ease his pain.
To be the one who could save him.
Emma cried because she was well and truly lost. She might sooner try to save Lucifer himself.
As if he read her deepest thoughts, he angled his head, moving closer until their breath mingled and Emma could feel the beat of his heart against her own. She stood, frozen, a bewildering yearning spilling through her, drawn to him despite the tortured confessions of his soul. Drawn to him because of them. She was certain that he knew of her longing, of the hot need that poured through her veins, the ache that cried out for his touch.
Perhaps her yearning had been there from the first moment when he had touched her in the coach. Or the moment when she had watched him hold Nicky in his arms, smiling down at his son. Mayhap it had grown from each look they exchanged, or each time she had watched from a distance as he bestowed a kindness upon a servant. She did not know. But the craving for him had grown until it writhed to unholy life within her, until she trembled with the force of it.
She had been warned about this from the time she was a small child, told time and again that she must not fall prey to the same mistake as her mother. Dragging in a shuddering breath, she tried to fight the demon of her desire, tried to recall all the reasons that she must beware of Anthony Craven, beware of the terrifying, captivating lure of him.
The full length of his hard body pressed against hers, trapping her between hot man and the cold wall at her back. The smell of his skin undid her, and she moaned softly as she brushed her face against his neck, his jaw. Wrong, so wrong, but the temptation of him made her blood sing. She wriggled against him, aware of the press of his pelvis to hers.
He laughed, low and dark, the sound fully lacking in humor. And she thought he would kiss her now. Oh, please let him press his lips to hers, those lush sensual lips. She moved her thighs together beneath her skirt. The longing to push against his disturbing weight warred with the longing to fist her hands in the fine cloth of his coat and drag him nearer still, to breath the scent of him until he filled her lungs, her heart, her every sense.
Breath hissed from between his teeth. She wondered if he was as overcome as she.
But he did not kiss her. He brought his mouth against her ear, and she was stunned at the hard twist of disappointment that clutched at her.
“Run away, Emma,” he whispered, even as his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck, his thumb caressing her collarbone. “Does my admission, nay, my confession, not strike the fear of God in you? Fly away from me.”
He made a harsh sound in his throat, and Emma felt the cold rush of air that replaced the warmth of his body as he slapped his open palms against the wall and pushed himself away from her. The chill brought the return of sanity. And the rush of mortification.
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