Trapped by Scandal by Jane Feather Page A

stepped into it, sitting down hastily as it dipped and swayed with her movements.
    The river was quite narrow at this point, but Hero had specified the steps at St. Michel, so the wherry man had to pull strongly upriver against the evening tide. Hero’s gaze remained riveted to the far bank as they went beneath the Notre Dame bridge, lit fitfully now by sconced torches flaring in the evening breeze. Was he still waiting? But he couldn’t be. She had no idea how long she’d been dodging the lanes and crowds, but too long, surely, for anyone to be waiting for her to reappear. And she was positive no one was on her trail now.
    At the steps, the oarsman offered no help as she clambered out of the rickety boat, merely whistling through his teeth as he gazed trancelike at the dark river. Hero dived once more into the rowdy crowds packing the narrow medieval alleys of St. Michel. It was a short walk to Place St. André des Arts, through a fetid lane, and from the square, she began the steep climb up the hill. Hero was as sure as she could be that no one was on her heels as she left the noise and drunken revelry behind her. But when she reached the door of number 7, she walked past it, crossed the street, ducked into an alley, and waited, listening. Nothing. No warning sixth sense, no eyes on her back, no loitering presence on the street.
    Confident at last, she walked back to the door of number 7 and rapped the rhythm on the shutters.
    The door was opened almost instantly, and she found herself facing a wall of fury. “Where the devil have you been? Everyone else has been back for hours.” Even as he spoke, William’s hands were on her, yanking her into the house so fast her feet seemed to lose touch with the ground. He was propelling her upstairs, his hand at the small of her back, driving her upwards even as his angry words poured over her. His voice was low but nonetheless ferocious as he pushed her into the small bedchamber on the top floor. “Do you have any idea what we’ve been going through, worrying about you? Your brother’s beside himself . . .”
    His hands were on her upper arms now, his grip tight as he shook her, the guilt, anger, and fear of the last several hours finally unpenned.
    â€œFor God’s sake, girl, it’s hell out there.”
    â€œDo you think I don’t know that?” Hero cried in an undertone as fierce as his. “I’ve been dodging and ducking those savage beasts for hours. Just stop it . . . let me go.” She twisted desperately in his hold, and then abruptly, her angry protests were lost as his arms came around her, encircling her, holding her tight against the taut, muscular power of his body, and his mouth hard on hers silenced her.
    The maelstrom of anger, passion, confusion, and relief coalesced into a single need. She fell back onto the bed as he came down with her, his hands pushing up her skirts, pulling apart her bodice, as she fumbled with his britches, tugged at his shirt. They came together in a glorious surge of sensation, in the violent aftermath of anger, of relief after the hideous tensions of the afternoon’s events. Hero’s back arched as the tight coil of rough passion seemed to tear her apart. William’s hips pressed into hers before he wrenched himself sideways with a low cry, grasping her to him so that she felt his seed pulsing hot against her belly, and her body felt as if it were melting, simply a formless mass, her limbs sprawled where they fell.
    But finally, reality intruded, the contours of the small room took shape once more, and the feel of the mattress beneath her became solid. Hero lay still and silent for a moment, wondering why she had responded to the violence of his lovemaking. He hadn’t hurt her, and she had responded with the same flaring passion, but it had been like nothing she had ever experienced or could have imagined.
    He lay heavily still half upon her,