Only Scandal Will Do. Jenna Jaxon

face beneath the mask softened, his lips turned up in a tender smile. He traced a line down her cheek with the back of one finger. “Allow me take care of you, my dear.”

      His touch, like fine silk drawn over her skin, sent a pang of longing through her. Could she permit someone else to be strong for her, just this once? He understood the fears she faced tonight and sought to vanquish them, as any knight errant would seek to make amends. He continued to stroke her cheek, her jaw, her chin, his touch feather light. A powerful, unreasoning desire assaulted her to feel his strong arms around her, sheltering her from the harsh world. She was hardly surprised, then, to find him gathering her against his broad chest.

      “Lean your head just there, sweet.”

      She could hear the strong beat of his heart, smell the clean, comforting citrus of his cologne. The fresh scent reminded her of home.

      “You will be all right now,” he whispered, holding her securely to him. Safe at last. She closed her eyes and leaned into his caresses, contentment stealing through her for the first time since leaving Virginia.

      With a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her face up to his. Her eyes flew open and peace fled as he pressed her mouth with a gentle kiss that stole what breath she had left. His lips–soft, warm, insistent–generated heat all the way to her toes. A sensation so overpowering she forgot everything around her, giving herself completely to the pleasures of that kiss.

      Somehow his tongue slipped through her quivering lips, stroked her tongue, and caressed the depths of her mouth. She groaned, her face aflame at this unexpected intimacy. No man had ever kissed her this way, plundering where he would and denying her the will to protest. Raw power leaped from his mouth, streaked through her body, inflamed her craving even more.

      Every magnificent swirl of his tongue resonated, not only in her mouth but in the deep, private places of her body as well. She moaned into his mouth, the low, guttural sound rising from some unknown reservoir of need. Pressing against him, she slid her hands up the steely hard muscles of his back evident even through his cloak and clothes.

      All she wanted was his hands on her, his tongue in her. Of its own accord, her tongue thrust into him, bringing a growl of approval that encouraged her to frenzied explorations of his warm, wet mouth. He slipped a hand down and rested it on the swell of her breast, impudently nudging a finger inside the gown’s low decolletage and brushing it against her aching nipple.

      Blue fire shot directly from his finger through her breast, causing Kat to gasp and arch against him. With a chuckle the man released her lips, but before she could protest, lowered his head and seized her nipple through the sheer white cloth. The gauzy fabric might as well not be there, for she could feel every lash of his circling tongue. The crest contracted into a small, tight bud. Another streak of fire leaped straight to the vulnerable core between her thighs. An unexpected bloom of heat raced through her and she moaned louder.

      His response, a rumbling throaty groan, sent exquisite vibrations humming through her breast. Then he lifted her in powerful arms, carried her the few feet to the bed and laid her on the blue coverlet. Dazed by the throbbing ache deep within her, bereft of his lips, she struggled to lift her head. As if roused from a drugged sleep, she rolled onto her side and raised her head. The man, the stranger, had not only removed his cloak, but was quickly unfastening his breeches. She shot upright and scrabbled wildly, trying to escape backward across the bed, but could find no purchase on the slick counterpane. The man advanced, his lips beneath the mask quirked in a wicked smile.

      “And I thought you were enjoying yourself, my lady.” He chuckled in his chest again. “But I see you are still reluctant. Come, let me help you forget your troubles once more.”

      “Nooo!” She scrambled off the bed, making for the door, praying wildly that it was unlocked.

      He snared her in one arm, pulled her back to the bed and threw himself down on her. “You are the most spirited lady I have ever had the pleasure of seducing,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “If I wasn’t afraid of yet another scandal, my dear, I would set you up as my mistress and we could play these delicious games to our hearts’ delight.”

      Duped! He’d never once believed her story. And she had let this scoundrel touch her... Twisting, she fought back as he pressed her into the soft covers. With ease he gripped her hands, raised them above her head. God, but he was strong! He pushed her gown up to her hips and an insistent hardness pressed against her legs as he tried to part them. Panic gave way to cold fury.

      “Take your person off me this instant,” she spat at him, still struggling with every ounce of energy left. “Or I vow I will see you die by my hand or my brother’s. I care not which. I tell you for the last time that I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam and if you ruin me you bring equal ruin down upon you and your entire family.”

      The dark circles behind the glittery mask–all she could see of his eyes–widened and he tilted his head to the side as though puzzled. Perhaps the deadly calm with which she’d spoken or her icy certainty had finally penetrated his lust-maddened brain. She winced when he probed her wrists, explored the abrasions left by the kidnappers’ rope. His mouth pursed, then he loosened his grip on her hands.

      She shot a hand out and ripped into his cheek with her nails, leaving three long red gashes spouting blood. The man cursed and straightened, releasing her to clutch his injured face.

      Kat leaped from the bed, sprinted to the corner and grabbed the stoneware pitcher from the washstand. She swung the jug around with all the force she could muster, not waiting to see where it landed but aiming high. The solid clunk as the heavy pottery connected with the back of his head reverberated down her arm. The pitcher burst into a torrent of pieces, pattering like rain onto the soft blue rug and the dark red-clad body now sprawled unmoving at her feet.

      Grabbing up the basin, she bent cautiously toward the motionless figure. She raised her weapon, but the man did not stir. A flicker of guilt made her search for signs of life, and with the slight rise and fall of his back, relief coursed through her. Clutching the basin, she rose, skirted the still figure and stepped to the door.

      Slow and silent, she turned the knob, praying to every saint imaginable that the door was not locked. When it opened toward her a scant quarter inch, she breathed a grateful sigh. She eased it shut and leaned her head against the cool wood, trying to steady her heartbeat. Think, she must think. Plan. Glancing down at her gown–dirty, crumpled, stained with blood–a wave of giddiness overtook her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on gathering the dregs of her courage.

      A measure of calm returning, she surveyed the room again, assessing what, if anything, she might use in her escape. Without the benefit of surprise, the earthenware bowl would prove useless as a weapon. Stepping toward the washstand to replace the basin, a sharp prick of pain brought her up short. Shards from the broken pitcher had cut her foot, and with a sigh she remembered her captors had taken her shoes. She must go out into the London streets barefoot, looking like a fugitive from a slaughterhouse, but it could not be helped.

      With the basin returned to the stand, Kat peered around once more, irked that there was nothing she might use. Flung into the corner, hidden by the chair, lay the man’s big, black cloak. Gleefully, she grabbed the expensive garment and pulled the warm folds around her. It smelled like him, the clean citrus rising from the collar. That scent might haunt her for the rest of her life, but could be endured for now.

      The cloak dragged the ground, so her ankles and legs would not show. Her grubby feet, however, she could do nothing about. At least she was decently covered. Decent. Would she ever feel decent again?

      Resolutely, Kat pushed that thought aside. God knew she was not free yet, neither was she home. All that happened tonight would keep until she had time think.

      Gathering the cape around her, she cracked open the door, half expecting to see Nigel barrel down the hallway, sword in hand. But no one lurked in the shadowy corridor. The still-unmoving figure lay sprawled on the carpet as if dead, and a twinge of remorse shot through her. A fleeting memory of his lips on hers caused her to catch her breath. She was not sorry she’d struck him. Nevertheless, she hoped the man