Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress. Nicola Cornick

I almost always acted first and thought later.

      There was a knock at the door. Assuming that it was Mrs Campbell, come to help me with my laces, I went across and opened it.

      Neil Sinclair stood there. I realised that he had come directly up to my chamber. Though I had been thinking of him only a moment before, I could not have been more shocked had it been Mrs Campbell herself running down the inn corridor in her shift.

      Before I could prevent it, he stepped inside the room and closed the door.

      I found my voice—and grabbed my gown to my chest to cover my near nakedness.

      ‘What do you think you are doing, sir? Leave this room at once!’

      He smiled again, that lazy, intimate smile that had such a distressing effect on my equilibrium. I felt my legs tremble a little.

      ‘Do not be afraid, Miss Balfour,’ he said. ‘I merely wish to speak to you.’

      ‘This,’ I said, ‘is not the time nor the place to talk, sir. You are no gentleman to stand there staring at a lady in a state of undress!’

      He gave me a comprehensively assessing glance that started on my heated face and ended with my bare feet, and he made no attempt whatsoever to disguise the fact that he was enjoying looking.

      ‘No gentleman, perhaps,’ he murmured, ‘but a man nonetheless.’

      My hands clenched on my gown. I would have slapped his face to emphasise my point except that that would have necessitated dropping the garment and revealing even more of myself to his gaze. I was not exactly over-endowed with a bosom, but there was enough of it that I did not wish to expose it to him. Whilst I hesitated with this ridiculous dilemma of to slap or not to slap, he spoke again.

      ‘And I am beginning to think that you are no true lady, Miss Balfour.’

      I froze, astounded. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir?’

      ‘No lady would see fit to undress and then lean from the window of a tavern in her shift, like the veriest wanton.’

      I blushed hotly, the pink colour flooding not only my face but prickling the skin of my chest and shoulders as well. Having so pale a complexion can be such a curse.

      ‘That was a mistake!’ I said furiously. ‘I did not realise—’

      His dark brows rose in quizzical amusement. ‘Indeed. You are wild, Miss Balfour, whether you realise it or not.’

      We stared at one another, whilst the air between us seemed to sing and hum with something I did not understand. I was woefully inexperienced in the ways of men, but I could see desire darkening his eyes and I could feel an answering warmth in the pit of my stomach. I was shivering as though I had an ague, the goose pimples rising on my bare skin, but at the same time I felt hotter that I had ever felt before in my life. The fire hissed in the grate and the wind battered at the window, and I seemed sensitive to every sound and every sensation and most particularly to the turbulent heat in Neil Sinclair’s eyes.

      ‘You need not travel on to Glen Clair tomorrow,’ Neil said softly. ‘There is nothing for you there. Come with me to Edinburgh instead. You will have a house, with servants to attend you and fine clothes and jewellery. I would come to you often.’

      I drew a deep breath. My heart was hammering. ‘Are you by any chance asking me to be your mistress, Mr Sinclair?’

      No doubt the Miss Bennies would have collapsed with the vapours by now to be so treated, but even though I had no practical experience I was not a sheltered lady who did not know what went on between a man and a woman. Living in a small village one became aware of such matters. Besides, I was as blunt spoken as any man.

      A disturbingly sensuous smile curled Neil Sinclair’s lips. ‘Would that be so very bad, Miss Balfour? I am offering you a comfortable home, instead of a ruin in the back of beyond with relatives who do not want you.’

      ‘You are not offering it for nothing!’ I snapped.

      His smile deepened. He put out a hand and touched my cheek gently. I was so shocked at the physical contact that I jumped.

      ‘All I ask in return,’ he said, ‘is something that should be intensely pleasurable for both of us.’

      Once again I felt that jolt deep inside me—the tug of desire that had me thinking all kinds of wanton thoughts. I swallowed hard and pushed away the heated images of lust and loving.

      ‘I thought,’ I said, ‘that you did not even like me very much.’

      I saw something primitive and strong flare in his eyes, scorching me.

      ‘Then you know little of men, Miss Balfour,’ he said. His tone had roughened. ‘I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.’

      ‘Which was only yesterday,’ I said.

      ‘Sometimes it does not take very long to know.’

      I spoke slowly. ‘You think me wild?’

      His eyes were very dark. His hand fell to my bare shoulder, his touch light as feathers brushing the skin, and I shivered all the harder. He traced a line down my arm from the hollow of my collarbone to the sensitive skin of my wrist where the pulse hammered hard.

      ‘You are as fierce as a Highland cat, and with me you could always be as wild as your nature leads you to be.’

      His words, so softly spoken and so intimate—so perilously tempting—made my stomach clench tight. But even so I knew that I had to stop this. Already, in my naivety and accursed curiosity, I had let it go on far too long. I should have thrown him out of my chamber within a minute, instead of allowing myself to be drawn in. The difficulty, the danger, was that Neil Sinclair was right. I was wild. I always had been. He had had my measure from the start.

      My wayward mind whispered that it would be exciting, deliciously enjoyable, to be Neil’s mistress. My knees threatened to give way completely at the mere thought of him seducing me. I realised with a shock that I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

      But I was not stupid. I would not trade my good name to be a rich man’s mistress, with my body entirely at his disposal. I would not do it even for those mysterious and seductive pleasures he promised. Yes, I concede I was tempted. Very well, I was greatly tempted—to within an inch of accepting. But…

      ‘So,’ I said, ‘you know I am alone and unprotected. You know I am penniless and dependent on the charity of relatives you say have none. So you make your dishonourable offer. You are a scoundrel, Mr Sinclair.’

      He took a step back. He looked rueful now, and a little chagrined. I knew that he had sensed the struggle in me and realised that this time my honour had won out.

      ‘I am sorry that you see it that way, madam,’ he said.

      ‘How else is there to see it?’ I demanded.

      He shrugged. ‘If you put it like that—’

      ‘I do!’

      He raised his hands in a gesture of reconciliation. ‘Very well. I apologise. I made a mistake.’ He gaze went to my whitened knuckles, still clasped tight about the gown at my breast. ‘Have no fear, Miss Balfour. I am not a man who would force a woman against her will.’ He laughed. ‘It has never been necessary.’

      Well! The arrogance of the man!

      ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Because I am not a woman to shout for help and bring the whole inn down about our ears—but I will if I have to.’

      He smiled, and for a moment I felt my all too precarious determination falter. ‘But you were tempted by my offer,’ he said. ‘Admit it, Catriona.’

      ‘I was not.’ I turned my face away to hide my betraying blush and he laughed.

      ‘Liar,’ he said softly.

      My chin came up. ‘I like Edinburgh,’ I said. ‘I like the