Scandal's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Page A

make them trip over their toes, stutter, wheeze—a whole host of simple difficulties that would send the most confident fleeing.
    But not him.
    With him, all she could do was run.
    But at present, she couldn’t run. All she could do was . . .
    Enjoy her ravishment.
    Not a difficult task. One her senses recommended.
    Wholeheartedly.
    At some point, she lifted her arms and wrapped them about his neck, and he moved closer, the pressure of his chest easing her aching breasts. She kissed him back with giddy abandon and felt him shift. Then his hand slid behind her, between the tree and her back, and slid down. Her willful senses leapt as he cradled her bottom, tilting her hips away from the tree. Then he pressed one hard thigh between hers.
    She would have pulled back from their kiss and gasped, but he wouldn’t let her go—their kiss continued with escalating urgency, an urgency she felt to her bones. Their lips fused, eased, then melded again—his were cool marble, hers burned. He leaned into her—she drew him closer. Her thick pelisse muted the sensation of body meeting body, yet heat still swept through her, wave after wave, increasing in intensity—they had to be melting the snow for yards.
    But she didn’t pull back—didn’t struggle to escape—she returned his kisses with increasing fervor, undismayed by the intimacy he pressed on her, eagerly savoring every nuance, every facet—what else could she do? This was experience, one she might never again enjoy.
    So she enjoyed—and encouraged, invited, incited.
    And he responded. Ardently.
    His desire, his fire, set her aflame. When his hand dropped from her face to close firmly about her breast, she gasped and swayed—her knees literally wobbled. His hand firmed beneath her bottom, supporting her as his long fingers closed and caressed, firming about her nipple, squeezing gently. She arched against him, driven by instinct, by a hot need that was the counterpart of his. His prowling hunger had never been so clear, so forcefully imprinted on her senses. She tasted it in his kiss, felt it in his locked muscles, in the ridge of rampant flesh riding against her belly.
    He tilted her hips, lifting her slightly—his thigh pressed deeper between hers, shifting suggestively.
    The heat took her—a storm of fire and flame raced through her. She clutched his head wildly, threading her fingers through his thick locks as she angled her lips beneath his.
    Crack!
    Mere seconds later, or so it seemed, she was stepping carefully along the path a full five yards past the comfortable tree, one hand on Richard’s sleeve, the other holding her skirts as she stepped over a tree root, when firm footsteps approached from behind.
    They both turned, with wholly false expressions of polite surprise. Catriona could only be thankful for the dappled shadows that hid her face as Algaria’s black gaze found her.
    Algaria frowned. “I thought you might have got lost.”
    Refraining from pointing out that she knew these woods better than her mentor, Catriona inclined her head. Carefully—it was still spinning. “I showed Mr. Cynster the lookout. We were on our way back.” Via a tree.
    She could only just summon enough breath to get the words out; Algaria merely humphed and waved them on.
    â€œDon’t wait for me—I’ll just plod along slowly.”
    Catriona flicked a glance at her companion in time to see his lips twitch; she ignored the dangerous light in his eyes. “Very well.”
    Gracefully haughty, as befitted The Lady’s senior disciple, she turned and allowed her nemesis to lead her on. She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed on the path and the scenery; she was still giddy, and flushed, with her senses clamoring. Insistently.
    Steadfastly, she ignored them—and the question of what might have happened had Algaria not arrived. Such speculation was not calming, and right