Page 4 of Some Like It Wild
His grip on her wrist gentled; the callused pad of his thumb caressed her fluttering pulse. He closed his eyes and lowered his mouth to hers, his lips no longer stern but soft and warm with invitation. They played over hers with a deliberate tenderness that was far more dangerous than force.
Pamela was well acquainted with the art of the stage kiss. How its purpose was to convey passion without actually provoking it. This was accomplished with the merest brushing of lips—neat and dry, with no communion of hearts or souls.
Which was why it came as such a shock when the highwayman boldly breached the seam of her lips with the rough, silky heat of his tongue. There was nothing neat or dry about his kiss. His tongue swirled over hers—tasting, teasing, tantalizing—urging her to take him deeper inside of her with each maddening pass of his mouth over hers. He smelled like freshly crushed pine needles and wood smoke and tasted of whisky and danger.
Too late, she realized she was no longer his prisoner. She had no recollection of him freeing her wrist, yet somehow both of her hands had ended up flattened against the muscular contours of his chest. Her palms measured each thundering beat of his heart as if it were her own.
Despite his threat, he hadn’t yet committed a hanging offense. Her kiss was not stolen after all, but freely given. And given with such generosity and enthusiasm that no court of law in the land would dare to convict him.
He threaded his fingers through the thick coils of her hair, knocking her bonnet away until it was hanging down her back by its velvet ribbons and tilting her head back to allow him to take even more shocking liberties with her mouth.
In that moment, she forgot Sophie, forgot all about their doomed quest for the duke’s heir, forgot they were only a few shillings away from utter ruin, forgot everything but the utter joy and madness of kissing a highwayman in the moonlight.
Until a shrill shriek pierced the pleasant roaring in her ears and a fluttery, pink object came crashing down on his head.
Chapter 2
In his twenty-nine years of life, Connor Kincaid had been shot twice, stabbed three times and nearly drowned in the rushing waters of a burn. He had survived a botched hanging and had both his nose and his ribs broken in brawls more times than he could count. But he could honestly say he’d never been assaulted by a shrieking virago wielding a parasol.
The assault might not have been so startling if he hadn’t been rendered deaf, dumb and blind to everything but the intoxicating taste of the woman in his arms. The thick coils of her hair played through his callused fingers, trapping him in a web of silk. Her breathless sighs were like a song only he could hear. The eager press of her hands against his chest betrayed both innocence and hunger—tempting him to steal the one and satisfy the other. He was a kiss away from carrying her into the forest, laying her back on a bed of moss and doing just that when reality came crashing down on his head in the form of something frilly and pink.
Had his assailant been armed with a pistol instead of a parasol, she could have shot him in the back with equal ease. It would be no more than he deserved for being such a careless fool. He had learned long ago that fate was a heartless mistress, who would simply laugh in his face if he escaped the hangman’s noose only to be shot dead for stealing a kiss.
“Unhand my sister, sirrah!” his attacker shrieked, her delicate arm rising and falling as she continued to beat him about the head and shoulders with her makeshift weapon.
Connor wheeled around and raised one arm to ward off the blows. Since the parasol was trimmed with feathers, it was like being attacked by a flock of bloodthirsty pink sparrows.
As she landed a savage blow to his right ear, Connor roared an oath and instinctively raised the pistol in his other hand.
The girl went stumbling backward, still clutching the parasol. Before he could gather his scrambled wits, the woman whose kiss could have cost him his life darted out from behind him and threw herself in front of his attacker so that his pistol was once again leveled atherheart. Her striking amber eyes had lost none of their defiance, but her entire body was trembling with reaction.
The sight of the two women cowering before him only sharpened the edge of his temper. He’d never had much of an appetite for bullying women, but when word had reached his ears that two Englishwomen draped in jewels and furs were traveling these roads without the protection of armed outriders, he had been unable to resist the temptation. He had planned to rob them and send them on their way, confident that they could easily coax their wealthy fathers, husbands or lovers into replacing what he took from them. But just a few seconds earlier he had been considering taking something that could never be replaced.
He glared right back at the woman for a moment, resenting her for making him feel like the villain he was, then slowly lowered the pistol, tucking it into the waist of his breeches.
“‘Unhand my sister, sirrah’?” he echoed. “And you dare to scold me for spoutin’ drivel!” He flung a finger toward the wee blonde peeping over her shoulder. The girl’s cornflower blue eyes were as round as saucers. “Who writesherdialogue?”
Before either of them could react, he stalked over and snatched the parasol from the blonde’s hand. He slammed it down over his knee, snapping it neatly in two. As he flung the pieces into the forest the girl had the nerve to look crestfallen, as if he had just beheaded her favorite doll.
Shooting him an equally reproachful look, the brunette with the tart tongue and the honeyed lips gently took the girl by the shoulders. “How could you have been so foolish, Sophie? You could have gotten us both killed.”
“I’m sorry, Pamela,” the girl replied, wrinkling her pert nose at Connor, “but I wasn’t about to just stand by and let some barbarian ravish my sister.”
At Sophie’s words, Pamela lowered her lashes and stole a look at the barbarian in question. He was watching their exchange, his arms folded over his chest. Oddly enough, his smoldering glare and the sulky set of his jaw only served to make himmoreattractive. She could hardly accuse him of attempting to ravish her when she had not only allowed his kiss, but welcomed it. If he had dragged her off into the woods and had his way with her, she would have had no one to blame but herself.
A damning mixture of dismay and shame flooded her. She’d always prided herself on her restraint where the male sex was concerned. What was to become of them if she had inherited their mother’s weakness for a pretty face and a brawny shoulder?
“There was no need for you to risk your parasol or your life defending me. I was in no danger whatsoever,” she lied, tearing her gaze away from his face with more difficulty than she cared to admit.
Sophie blinked up at her. “Well, I know you told me that most Highlanders were more inclined to ravish their sheep than their wom—”
Pamela clapped a hand over her sister’s mouth. “You must have misunderstood me. I simply said they prefer women who are more…docile.”
She stole another nervous glance at the Scotsman. His eyes didn’t betray so much as a spark of amusement, but she could have sworn his dimple deepened.
“I was simply trying to distract the man so you could make your escape,” she told Sophie before releasing her and turning stiffly to face the highwayman. “I can assure you, sir, that I am not in the habit of kissing strangers. Or highwaymen,” she added as an afterthought.
His stony expression never wavered. “Oh, I believe you, lass.”
