Page 50 of Their Master

“Would you like to feel my hair?” she asked on impulse. “It is like a sheep’s.”

He laughed. “How could I resist such an intriguing offer?”

Moira sank to her knees beside his chair.

His pleasant expression shifted into something hungry and predatory, and his flaring pupils told her it had been the right thing to do.

He slid his hand into her tousled locks. “Soft,” he murmured. “Not at all like a sheep.”

“Have you ever felt a sheep?” Moira asked pertly, earning a chuckle and smile from him.

She was relieved that she was finally easing into her role of attentive, admiring lover, a role that had always been as natural as breathing in the past, and yet seemed so difficult with this man.

Perhaps that is because you were not planning to betray all your other lovers?

Moira banished the thought and met Smith’s far too probing gaze.

“No, I don’t recall ever touching a sheep. You’ve caught me out in a lie, already. I see I shall have to be more careful.”

That makes two of us.

His fingers trailed over her cheek and settled on her throat.

Moira pressed against his palm, strangely comforted by his touch.

“What were you reading?” he asked, his hand tightening around the sensitive skin and then stroking, the caress enough to make her purr.

“Great Expectations.”

“Is it good?” he asked, his expression almost dreamy as he sipped his wine and explored her with his fingers.

“It is good so far, but… ominous. I took it from your library. Haven’t you read it?”

“I suspect that either Mason, my secretary, purchased it or perhaps my friend Nora Fanshawe left it.”

“The painter?”

“You know her?” he looked surprised.

“No, but I’ve seen her work.” Moira leaned closer, so that he wouldn’t have to stretch to continue his divine stroking. “I saw one of her paintings, the one that won a prize—I’m afraid I don’t recall the name of it.”

Smith smiled. “That’s because it was simply titledMale Nude, #14. The wretched woman refuses to come up with titles that are descriptive. She also painted the portrait in my study as well as the nude above my bed. I take it Luke gave you the tour?”

“Yes, he did. The one in your bedroom is… most striking.”

He stroked her jaw. “It is the ultimate in vanity for me to have consented to the painting and doubly vain to hang it above my own bed, is it not?”

“Consented? You mean it wasn’t your choice?”

“I lost a bet with the young gentleman in the painting. As the winner of the wager, he demanded that portrait.”

“It is magnificent.”

“Youare magnificent,” he said softly. “That pale blush color suits you; you have glorious skin and hair.” He stood and helped her to her feet, his hands going to the ties on her dressing gown. “I spoke to the doctor after he was finished with your exam and he said you were in good health—even your back.”

Moira had liked Doctor Felton, a young man who’d not seemed shocked by her shaved body, her scars, or her presence in Smith’s house. While he’d examined her most thoroughly, he’d been respectful and had explained what he was doing every step of the way. All in all, it was the most illuminating doctor visit she’d ever had—and she had endured plenty, both at home and at Bernina’s; brothels that employed diseased whores would not be in business long.

Smith slid her dressing gown from her shoulders and then strode the few feet to drape it across the bench at the foot of the bed.

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