The Last Wicked Scoundrel by Lorraine Heath Page B

luscious dip and curve that comprised her.
    He was familiar with the human body, had examined hundreds of them, had examined her, but he had never wanted to explore one with the patience and depths that he wanted to explore hers. He wanted to know the smallest of details, slide his tongue along the tiniest of crevices. He wanted to become lost in her until he forgot his past, until hers could no longer create a chasm between them. He wanted what he could not have, what he should not take.
    But at that moment he needed the surcease she could offer, the balm of her innocence, the solace of her trust.
    Cupping her face, he planted his mouth over hers. Triumph rushed through him as she sagged against him, an invitation he could no longer ignore. He would have regrets in the morning. He had little doubt she would as well, but tonight they were both raw and wounded, reeling from disappointment, despair. The unexpected turn of events.
    He lifted her into his arms. “Not in here,” he said, “not in here where the ghosts from both our pasts linger.”
    W ith resolve in his stride, William carried Winnie through the house with purpose. She should have objected. Any decent woman would, but she wanted too badly what he was offering, and she wanted to provide comfort in return. She had thought tonight she would be dealing with her past, and it seemed he was dealing with his.
    She was glad she’d had a chance to see him in anger—in fury, more like. She knew for certain that he would never take his fists to her, would never hurt her. She could trust him with her body—and in doing so, with her heart and soul. He would guard them, he would keep them safe.
    It was late, and all the servants were abed. She was grateful for that, although she wasn’t certain it would have mattered. As she kissed the underside of his jaw, she realized how very desperately she wanted to be with him.
    He opened the door to her bedchamber, walked through, then slammed it shut with his foot. Setting her down on the bed, he stretched out beside her, rising up on one elbow. As one of his fingers journeyed along her throat and stopped at the first button, she held her breath.
    His eyes darkened, his breathing grew shallow. “It will be like seeing you for the first time.”
    He’d seen her injuries, but not the scars that had formed. Could she share them with him? Could she share them with anyone? They shamed her and yet—
    “I don’t find scars hideous,” he said as though reading her thoughts. Leaning in he kissed her brow. “The reason behind them perhaps, but they are a badge of survival.” He pressed his lips to the small one at her cheek. “But you have scars across your soul, and I don’t know how to heal those.” He touched his tongue to a small place beneath her chin.
    Was there a scar there as well? It seemed he knew her better than she knew herself, but then he had treated them while she had avoided looking for any reminders of that night.
    “Do you have scars?” she asked.
    “A few, from when I was a boy, so they are faint now. You probably wouldn’t even notice them, but I still see them, feel them, know they are there. We look at ourselves more harshly than others do. We think people note the imperfections because they are glaring to us, when in fact they are nothing at all to others.”
    With little more than a quick flick of his wrist, he freed the first button.
    Stop him , a tiny voice cried, but a louder one told her she would be a fool not to welcome his advances. She remembered how gently he had tended her hurts, how tenderly he had changed bandages and applied salve.
    Now he cupped her face, leaned in, and captured her mouth in a deep searing kiss that sent all her doubts, her inhibitions to perdition. Within her he stirred a matching hunger that she couldn’t deny. She wanted his mouth, his hands, his body, every aspect of him touching her, becoming part of her. She’d never felt this way before, had never dared want