Page 43 of New Storm Rising
“Fiend! Lecher! Blaggard! You blew up half the bloody town, just so you could keep me prisoner in your bedroom?”
His gaze bored into me with abrupt intensity. “Not just, no.” Reaching out, he grabbed my hand and lifted it to his face, until it came to rest against his cheek. “I did it to keep you safe as well.”
“W-what?”
“I did this,” taking hold of my shoulders and pulling me close, he put weight into every word, “to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” I blinked. “Safe? Safe? You blew up three streets!”
“Insignificant ones.”
“You provoked a whole saloon full of desperados and caused chaos everywhere! Those men chased us through half the town, trying to shoot us!”
“And they were so drunk and dazed they wouldn’t have hit a barn door at ten paces!” came Mr Ambrose’s unshakable reply. “Better take a little risk against that riff-raff now than the alternative. Now, through this ‘chaos’ as you call it, we have struck a blow against the enemy, and I have ensured you will be safely out of the way when the real battle begins. Because if you think those men at the saloon were dangerous, you have no idea what kind of men Navarro will send after us now that I am here.” He took hold of my shoulders with an iron-hard grip. “I willnotlet you get in the middle of that. Iwillprotect you.”
“But why?” I looked up at him, emotions roiling inside me. “I thought we were past this! I thought you finally saw me as an equal!”
“I…” Swallowing, his voice trailed off. His eyes seemed incapable to move from mine, yet his hand, as if drawn by magic, travelled down towards my abdomen. Suddenly, his face hardened with determination. “I will not allow you to be put in danger. Not now. Not with the way things are. Iwillprotect you!”
I should have been pissed at him. I should have wanted to punch him! Instead…
Instead I justwanted him. And I also wanted an ice cream and mustard toast. And a jar full of pickled beaver tails. But I wantedhimeven more!
What the heck waswrongwith me?
I felt a wave of heat rise inside me unlike anything I had felt before. Suddenly, I was incredibly aware of Mr Ambrose’s chiselled face, his sculpted body separated from me only by some thin scraps of cloth. I was incredibly aware that we were alone, on our honeymoon, in the middle of the night, inside a bedroom with a king-sized double bed right beside us.
He met my eyes. And he must have seen something there. Because the next moment, he grabbed me and lifted me into a princess carry.
A princess carry!
Me, Lilly Linton, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland’s foremost feminist! I should protest! I should sock him! I should…eat ice cream and mustard on toast. A lot. And I should kiss him. Like right bloody now!
What the hell waswrongwith me?
Before I could find an answer to that particular question, I felt Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s arms flex around me. A moment later, I was sailing through the air, and, with a thud, landed on something soft. Reaching out to either side, I found down-filled pillows, soft and welcoming. Pillows. Like on a bed.
Sucking in a breath, I looked up, and there he stood. Mr Rikkard Ambrose, towering above me, his eyes burning into mine with cold fire.
“Now,” he enquired, stalking forward, “I believe we were on a honeymoon?”
“Indeed, Sir.” I stared up at him, having to fight hard not to grab him and tear his clothes off.
He, however, did not seem to have such compunctions.
Grabbing hold of my tailcoat, he tore it off me in one swift move. In a blink, he was above me, and I was in his arms, in a grip too tight, and far too wonderful, to escape.
“Mine!” he growled.
I smirked up at him. “Goldmine? That’s out there. My name is Lilly.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched before his grip on me tightened. “Not goldmine. Justmine!”
I raised my chin. “Prove it!”
His eyes glittered and, reaching out, he gently touched my face. “I shall, my wife. Oh, I shall.”
Then he plunged down towards me.
