Haunted Hearts by Teresa DesJardien Read Free Book Online Page B

away, even as thought had fallen away. Now it was only her and him. There was only here and now, and their two selves, and a growing, gnawing need stretching between them.
    He knew the moment was altering, tumbling out of his control. He was not a man of impulse, yet he was one who had a regard for poetry, a thing of which this embrace, this woman’s lips on his was made. A cadence, a rightness, almost an inevitability stirred in him, and it was only with a great effort that he made an attempt to pull away.
    “I think--” he said against her lips, but she silenced him with her mouth recapturing his.
    The time of protest passed. He felt her revel in his kiss, in the arms that tightened around her, and the hands that rumpled her dress and sought knowledge of her contours. The tight bodice was both revealing and frustrating, leaving little room for seeking fingers.
    He didn’t know how it had come to this; he had never done anything like this before, for it was clear where the moment was leading. The blood thundering through his body, and her touches in return, told him he was not mistaken. He had known women before, of course, but not even in some of the exotic locales in which he had grown as a man and as a spy had he found himself in such a position. Once or twice he’d wondered if he might have to make his way into a woman’s bed to obtain the information he wanted, but other factors had always intervened. Now there was no need for such an experience; this woman had nothing he needed. She was the one who had need, to be established under a new identity, hidden from the reach of French revenge. It made no sense. He could not fathom why she was so receptive to him, a stranger, but then her tongue ventured into his mouth to touch his own, and he forgot to wonder at anything but sensation.
    Suddenly, a flurry of sound came from the house, fanfares and cheers. To Ian’s ears came the cries of, “Remove your masks! Remove your masks!”
    He and the unnamed lady went still.
    “It must be midnight,” she murmured against his lips.
    A long beat went by, and then she pushed against his chest, getting her feet firmly under her. He slowly let her go, even though it was the last thing his arms wanted to do.
    She bent, presumably to retrieve her hair hood and mask.
    “My carriage is not far--” he began to offer.
    “Oh, no, you don’t need to do that. I’ll make my own way home.”
    “Home?” he echoed, confused.
    She stepped up to him, one hand cupping his cheek, that she might know where to raise her lips for a quick peck on his cheek, now not lover-like but tender and sincere. “Thank you,” she whispered. She stepped back toward the doorless opening, turning and crossing over the threshold of the building. She hesitated there a moment, her outline picked out in the doorway, and whispered sincerely, again, “Thank you so much.” Then she stepped away.
    “But--!” he cried, coming to the doorway, a hand on either side of the opening. Where was she going? Had he misunderstood his instructions somehow?
    “Good night. God bless,” she called softly as she slipped out of sight behind shrubbery and fog, but not before he saw the lightness of her hair disappear, presumably beneath the cat-mask’s attendant hood.
    “But how shall I find you?” he cried, starting forward, only to check his progress as a thought occurred to him. Did she think they’d been seen? Was she laying some kind of false trail, unbeknownst to or understood by him? But…?
    Had he not been concentrating so on the lady’s retreat, he might have noted a faint stirring in the slender trees off to the left. A single shadow separated itself from the leaves and branches, the long gown of the dark costume evident in the night for a moment in silhouette, to slip toward the house, to complete her assigned duty by a murmur in Lord Quinn’s ear.
    Instead Ian heard only the Lady Cat’s gentle disembodied voice as it floated back to him, “You’re not