She drank in another inhalation. By thunder, the man’s essence was heady. Masculine. Rugged. Clean and healthy and ultimately, him.
He pressed his lips to the curve of her jaw, trailing lower to anoint the column of her throat. Each tiny touch of his mouth to her skin sparked fresh embers to flame.
So tempting and sweet. So very right.
And yet, so very wrong.
She couldn’t deny that truth. Even as her body pleaded for more, a nagging harpy in her brain muttered in protest. Her niece’s life hung in the balance. Johanna stood on jelly-wobble knees, leaning into Connor’s strong body, drinking in his touch and his scent and his kiss, and all the while, Laurel was trapped. Frightened, no doubt. Anxious. Desperate to leave her captors and feel safe again.
Only Johanna could save her. Not this man who’d come to Johanna’s aid for his own purposes. He needed the book, just as she did.
But why?
The questions chilled Johanna’s passion. Not extinguished. Nothing short of a dunk in an ice-swollen river would accomplish that feat. But the flames that overtook her good sense cooled, leaving her rational mind in charge.
Grasping the sinew and muscle of his upper arm, she held firm and stepped away from his kiss. His caress. His possession.
Making no move to reclaim her again, he watched her. “This is nae wrong. Ye’ve done nothing but share yer sweetness with me.”
“I can’t.” She met eyes darkened by passion and an undeniable tenderness. “Not now.”
Again, he nodded. “Ah, the bairn’s safety weighs heavy on your thoughts.” He brushed a caress over her brow, a satin-smooth, comforting touch. “Trust me, Johanna. We will find her. She will soon be safe in yer arms again.”
…
Connor poured cold water in the basin and splashed his face, as if that would douse the fire Johanna had kindled in his body. She’d padded from the room, surprisingly quiet for one untrained in the ways of stealth, leaving him torn between thanking God she had more sense than him and dragging her back to him, logic be damned.
Not quite an innocent, that one. Yet, not quite worldly. The blend of hunger in her kiss and inexperience in her eyes intrigued the hell out of him. He’d never met a woman like her. Prim lasses in pursuit of a husband and connection to the family fortune had been foisted upon him in polite society. In his other, far-from-polite pursuits, most of the women he encountered used their beauty to achieve their aims. He doubted few even knew the taste of true pleasure.
Johanna did. She’d savored his touch like a connoisseur tasting fine French wine. All her senses had engaged in their passion. She’d responded without restraint to each soft caress, devoured the taste of his kiss, drank in her name on his lips. How delicious would her passion be if she fully gave herself over to the undeniable pull that drew them together?
A woman like Johanna was dangerous. She’d leave a man besotted. Craving her. Needing her beyond all reason. Abandoning caution to sate the hunger she stirred with the simplest of touches.
Bluidy good thing she had more sense than he did. If she’d not pulled away, he’d have stripped off that god-awful nightdress and deposited her on his feather bed. He’d have kissed every inch of her. She’d be writhing beneath him, taking her pleasure even as she gave it. He’d adore her. Treasure her. Claim her.
Just as he’d claim the Demon’s Heart for Scotland.
The thought sobered him. He had a job to do. A damnable task, but one that had become a matter of life and death.
While his bollocks were doing the thinking instead of the lump on his shoulders he called a head, a child was being held prisoner. A bairn, not old enough to comprehend the evil that had engulfed her. The wee lass would be frightened. No doubt of that. But if she was anything like her aunt, she’d keep her chin up and bite her lip to keep the tears from flowing.
Just like Johanna.
What was it about the woman that left him besotted? With that tumble of deep brown hair, satin skin, and eyes rich as sapphires, she was a beauty. But there was more. Much more. The courage in her mesmerizing eyes touched him like no other woman ever had. She had a fierce loyalty and a fine, clever wit. She wasn’t a woman to give her passion freely. She’d guard her emotions and her heart. That Johanna had chosen to open herself to his kiss and his touch was a rare thing indeed.
Bah, his bollocks were still influencing his thinking. He splashed himself again, as if that would sober him. But he was far from drunk. No. Whatever had taken hold of him, nearly intoxicating him, didn’t have a damn thing to do with alcohol. More likely his cock was still having its say.
Or so he told himself. But when he thought of Johanna—thought of wanting her, of making her his for more than just one night—the region that ached resided deep within his chest, pulsing with an unfamiliar need that grew stronger with every heartbeat.