Scandal's Bride by Stephanie Laurens

Seamus did as he did, don’t you?”
    She turned to face him. “Because he was mad?”
    Richard let his lips thin. “No.” He hesitated, studying her clear eyes. “You’re an attractive proposition, both personally and for your lands. You can’t be unaware of it. The offers for your hand have apparently been legion, most from men who would sell your vale from under you and treat you with far less respect than is your due. Seamus, more than anyone, was aware of that, so he tried a last throw, a last attempt to see you safe.”
    She half smiled, her expression, her eyes, full of a feminine superiority expressly designed to goad him—or any male. “Seamus was a tyrant in his own family—it would never have occurred to him that I’m well able to take care of myself.”
    If she had patted him on the hand and told him not to worry, it would have had the same effect; he didn’t bother to suppress his aggravated sigh. “Catriona, you are incapable of defending yourself against one determined callow youth, let alone a determined man.”
    Up went her pert nose. “Rubbish.” Green eyes clashed with his. “Besides, The Lady protects me.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œIndeed—men always think they have the winning hand, simply because they’re bigger and stronger.”
    â€œAnd they’re wrong?”
    â€œCompletely. The Lady has ways of dealing with importunate suitors—and so do I.”
    Richard sighed and looked away—then abruptly swung back and stepped toward her. She half-shrieked and jumped back—plastering herself helpfully against the bole of a tall tree. He splayed one hand on the bole by her side; with his other hand, he trapped and framed her face. The base of the tree was higher than the path, making her relatively taller. Richard tilted her face to his; with her skirts brushing his boots, and a mere inch between them, he looked down into her wide eyes. “Show me.”
    Her eyes grew wider as they searched his. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, straining the fabric of her coat—and still she was breathless. “Show you . . . what?”
    â€œThese ways you and Your Lady have of dealing with importunate suitors.” His gaze dropped to her lips; with his thumb, he brushed the lower.
    And felt her quiver. Her heart was racing, and he hadn’t even kissed her.
    The thought prompted the deed; bending his head, he brushed his lips tantalizingly over hers, not sure who he was teasing the most.
    â€œHow had you planned to protect yourself against a man who accosts you and kisses you?” He whispered the taunt against her lips, then raised his head—her lips parted fractionally. He sucked in a breath, and went back for more—for a slow, leisurely exploration of her luscious lips, of the soft, warm cavern of her mouth.
    And she melted for him—with no hint of a struggle, she welcomed him in, her tongue tangling tentatively with his.
    He drew back only to drag in a breath, and, his voice deep and grating, ask: “Just how had you planned to stop a man ravishing you?”
    He didn’t wait for an answer, but ravished her mouth, taking all she offered, and demanding more. Commanding more. Which she gave.
    Unstintingly.
    The damned woman had no defenses to speak of.
    Some small part of Catriona’s mind knew what he was thinking—the rest of her mind didn’t care. She’d never expected to have any defense against him ; she could normally freeze any man with a mere glance, yet from the first, he’d been immune, both to such overt intimidation and to more subtle manipulations. But she certainly wasn’t going to explain that—that with him, her defenses, those The Lady had gifted her with, would not, for some misbegotten reason, work.
    Even with her head spinning, her wits reeling, she wasn’t that daft. She could normally tie men in mental or verbal knots,