take it you didn’t want to marry him.”
“No.” Brianna thought for a moment. “Peter Van deVeer was his name. He had money, power, influence—everything my family lacked. He used to call me his little lost lamb, daughter of the Orient. He kissed me once, but I didn’t like it.” She rolled onto her side and propped her chin on her hand. “Do you remember that word?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “What word?”
“The word I shouldn’t have said? The word Sister Mary Louise would have been horrified if she’d heard me use it.”
He frowned. “Pecker?”
“Yes, that one.”
His eyelids drooped closed. “Hmmm. What about it?” His voice was deep and husky.
“Do you know what I used to call Peter, beneath my breath, when no one was listening?”
“What?” The word was a drowsy whisper.
“Peter the Peckerhead.”
No response. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then she saw his mouth split open into a wide grin. Impossibly straight teeth glistened white in the moonlight, bracketed by twin dimples. He wrapped his arm around her and nestled her in the crook of his shoulder. She fit there perfectly—as though God had designed her for that precise spot. He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze.
“Goodnight, angel.”
Chapter Nine
Jonathon woke to a soft, feminine scent drifting through the air. He took a deep breath and dragged it into his lungs the way a man dying of thirst would gulp water. An amazing scent. Lavender talc, mixed with some soft, earthy spice he couldn’t name. But he knew the fragrance. The intoxicating scent of Mrs. Donnelly. His cock roused awake before he did, springing to life with the rigid attention and fervent zeal of a military man answering a bugle’s call. Ready for action. Send him in.
With his eyes still closed, Jonathon brushed his hand beneath the bedcovers, seeking her. He would not seduce her. He just needed one quick, discreet touch to see if the woman’s skin truly was as velvety as it appeared. He reached out and felt… Nothing. The sheets were still warm from the heat of her body, the mattress still indented from her slight weight, but Mrs. Donnelly was gone.
Bloody hell . Frustration and unanswered need rose within him. She wasn’t even in the bed. Just the scent of the woman was enough to make him hard. It made no sense. He hadn’t even touched her. Not so much as a kiss. Not even an accidental brush of his fingers across her breasts. No. His actions been despicably honorable .
Jonathon was a man who preferred risk to caution, action to inaction, sex over romance. But last night had been different. Despite his exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to immediately fall asleep. The feel of Mrs. Donnelly’s body pressed up against his invoked within him an unexpected sensation of satisfaction. Once she’d drifted off, the steady rhythm of her breathing had acted as a balm on his soul. He’d been content to simply snuggle her. Cuddle her.
Good lord, if his friends back in London heard about it, he’d be laughed out of his clubs.
She’d said she felt safe with him, and he’d damned well wanted to prove himself worthy of her trust. Worse than that, he wanted to protect her. Slay the proverbial wolves at the door—wolves they’d firmly established didn’t exist, at least not in England. But if they did exist, he would slay them. Just for her.
Ridiculous. He threw back the covers and stood, frowning as he surveyed the room. The fire had gone out. There was no servant to bring him tea and toast. No valet to offer a shave, polish his boots, and set out a suit of clean, freshly pressed clothing. How positively primitive. Well, perhaps it was just as well that the water in the washbasin was cold. He doused himself thoroughly. The icy bath had the desired effect on his arousal and he was able to dress and venture downstairs without a telltale bulge in his trousers.
The inn was deserted. Mrs. Wintress and the two servant
“No.” Brianna thought for a moment. “Peter Van deVeer was his name. He had money, power, influence—everything my family lacked. He used to call me his little lost lamb, daughter of the Orient. He kissed me once, but I didn’t like it.” She rolled onto her side and propped her chin on her hand. “Do you remember that word?”
He gave her a sideways glance. “What word?”
“The word I shouldn’t have said? The word Sister Mary Louise would have been horrified if she’d heard me use it.”
He frowned. “Pecker?”
“Yes, that one.”
His eyelids drooped closed. “Hmmm. What about it?” His voice was deep and husky.
“Do you know what I used to call Peter, beneath my breath, when no one was listening?”
“What?” The word was a drowsy whisper.
“Peter the Peckerhead.”
No response. For a moment, she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then she saw his mouth split open into a wide grin. Impossibly straight teeth glistened white in the moonlight, bracketed by twin dimples. He wrapped his arm around her and nestled her in the crook of his shoulder. She fit there perfectly—as though God had designed her for that precise spot. He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze.
“Goodnight, angel.”
Chapter Nine
Jonathon woke to a soft, feminine scent drifting through the air. He took a deep breath and dragged it into his lungs the way a man dying of thirst would gulp water. An amazing scent. Lavender talc, mixed with some soft, earthy spice he couldn’t name. But he knew the fragrance. The intoxicating scent of Mrs. Donnelly. His cock roused awake before he did, springing to life with the rigid attention and fervent zeal of a military man answering a bugle’s call. Ready for action. Send him in.
With his eyes still closed, Jonathon brushed his hand beneath the bedcovers, seeking her. He would not seduce her. He just needed one quick, discreet touch to see if the woman’s skin truly was as velvety as it appeared. He reached out and felt… Nothing. The sheets were still warm from the heat of her body, the mattress still indented from her slight weight, but Mrs. Donnelly was gone.
Bloody hell . Frustration and unanswered need rose within him. She wasn’t even in the bed. Just the scent of the woman was enough to make him hard. It made no sense. He hadn’t even touched her. Not so much as a kiss. Not even an accidental brush of his fingers across her breasts. No. His actions been despicably honorable .
Jonathon was a man who preferred risk to caution, action to inaction, sex over romance. But last night had been different. Despite his exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to immediately fall asleep. The feel of Mrs. Donnelly’s body pressed up against his invoked within him an unexpected sensation of satisfaction. Once she’d drifted off, the steady rhythm of her breathing had acted as a balm on his soul. He’d been content to simply snuggle her. Cuddle her.
Good lord, if his friends back in London heard about it, he’d be laughed out of his clubs.
She’d said she felt safe with him, and he’d damned well wanted to prove himself worthy of her trust. Worse than that, he wanted to protect her. Slay the proverbial wolves at the door—wolves they’d firmly established didn’t exist, at least not in England. But if they did exist, he would slay them. Just for her.
Ridiculous. He threw back the covers and stood, frowning as he surveyed the room. The fire had gone out. There was no servant to bring him tea and toast. No valet to offer a shave, polish his boots, and set out a suit of clean, freshly pressed clothing. How positively primitive. Well, perhaps it was just as well that the water in the washbasin was cold. He doused himself thoroughly. The icy bath had the desired effect on his arousal and he was able to dress and venture downstairs without a telltale bulge in his trousers.
The inn was deserted. Mrs. Wintress and the two servant
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