One Little Sin by Liz Carlyle Page A

unnecessary,” he said. “You are tired, homesick, and still grieving. Your mother is dead, and your responsibilities are grave. I am sure you must sometimes feel quite alone in the world. May I not show at least a little concern?”
    She made a noise—a gasp? A sob?—she hardly knew which. And suddenly, she felt his arms coming around her, strong and sure. In that moment, it felt like the most comforting, most protective gesture anyone had ever made toward her.
    Esmée shouldn’t have done it, of course, but she let herself sag against the solid wall of his chest, which felt like the Rock of Gibraltar. He smelled of laundry starch and warm, musky male, and suddenly it was all she could do not to bury her nose in his sodden cravat and weep. She was homesick. She did miss her mother. And she was frightened. Frightened, perhaps, of herself as much as anyone.
    “Esmée, look at me,” he whispered. “Please.”
    She lifted her gaze to his, wordlessly pleading for something; she knew not what. His embrace tightened. His sinfully long lashes lowered just a fraction, his mouth hovering over hers. Esmée felt her blood quicken. She wanted to melt against him, to hide inside him. Instead she closed her eyes and parted her lips. As she’d somehow known it would, MacLachlan’s mouth settled over hers, and a sense of inevitability settled over Esmée.
    She turned her head, all but begging him to deepen the kiss. His mouth molded to hers, pliant and hungry. Something in Esmée’s stomach seemed to bottom out. Her toes curled, and her breath seized. Wrong. Oh, this was so wrong. But an inexorable force drew her body fully against his. She gasped—or meant to—and felt the urgent press of his tongue draw across the seam of her lips. At his subtle urging, she let her head fall back, wantonly opening to him.
    MacLachlan groaned, a low, agonizing sound, and slid his tongue deep inside her mouth. God, it felt so strange. So wonderfully sinful. Like nothing she’d ever felt before. Her breath came fast and shallow now. She rose onto her tiptoes, and let her hands slip round his waist, then up, up the warmth of his back, savoring his warmth and strength.
    “Esmée.” He whispered the word against her lips, then plumbed the depths of her mouth again. Beneath her hands, she felt the layered muscles of his back shiver, as if he were an impatient stallion.
    She pulled her mouth away but a fraction. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
    His mouth left hers and skimmed along her cheek, all the way to her jaw, then along the row of pearls which encircled her throat. A warm, heavy hand slid down her spine, lower and lower, until it settled hotly over her hip, circling and massaging through the fabric of her skirts.
    Oh, God, she was so tired of being alone. She craved the touch of another human being. She craved this. Esmée gave in to the urge to press herself against him. Vaguely, she knew what she was doing was wrong. Foolish. Still, she let her fingers curl hungrily into the silk which covered his broad back.
    In response, MacLachlan shoved his other hand into her hair, his fingers threading through her tresses, stilling her to his gentle onslaught. Ever so delicately, he had his way with her, sucking and nipping down the length of her throat, until his lips were set at the turn of her neck. Until she would have agreed to anything he asked. And yet, he hesitated.
    “Oh, don’t,” she whispered.
    “Don’t—?” The word held a wealth of agony.
    Esmée tried to shake her head. “Don’t stop,” she choked. “Please.”
    But it was too late. His warm mouth was no longer pressed intently against her neck. The only sound was that of his breathing, which was rough and audible in the room. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at her. A brilliant shaft of late-morning sun slanted through the window and across his shoulder, heightening the gold in his hair. Bringing her back to her senses.
    “Esmée.” His eyes swam with despair. “Oh,