raw agony which racked her.
“Her dress burned so fast she looked like Fourth of July fireworks.” Portia choked back memories of the awful smell.
“Hush, dearest, hush.” Gareth rocked her in his arms, his head resting on the top of her head.
“She screamed and screamed until the doctor came with laudanum,” Portia whispered into his shoulder’s safe haven. “I prayed for her to die so she wouldn’t hurt anymore. But she lingered for days. I thought it was my fault.”
“Never that, Portia, never that.” Ferocity lit his eyes, too savage to be doubted. “You couldn’t have stopped those embers, any more than you could have rescued her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely.”
“Then promise me you’ll believe you had to obtain justice for your family, because nobody else could.”
He hesitated, his eyes flickering to find an escape from the trap she’d set.
“I believe it,” she added, providing the strongest seal she could.
“I may believe it was the only road to justice, Portia.”
She almost cheered but the hard set of his jaw made her wary.
“But I’m still a man who’ll turn killer far too easily. I’m no fit husband for any woman, especially you, because I will never escape that taint.”
“You are my dearest friend, Gareth, and have always protected me. We’re already married.”
“Not for long.”
Nightmare glimpses of agony to come racked her bones. Dear heavens, what would she do when he truly took back his ring and the joy of his presence?
She would not let that happen; she could be strong, too, and cunning. She still had a little time to play with and he did care for her, beyond their old friendship.
She would have to use a woman’s weapons in this battle, little though she believed in them after her marriage to St. Arles.
Now she would have to open herself up freely and rely solely on what Gareth had taught her about herself in the past few days. It must be successful because it meant everything.
She managed a smile, matched by a hopefully seductive shrug to emphasize her dishabille.
“Do you want to stand in the middle of our bedroom and argue paperwork? Or would you rather come to bed and play for a few hours until St. Arles proves again that he’s an ass?”
“You want to sleep with somebody who’s killed so many people?” her husband questioned unsteadily.
“I want to sleep with Gareth Lowell,” she corrected him firmly. “The man who makes my pulse melt in anticipation of every hour alone.”
Gareth’s gaze swept over her once again, like burning silk caressing every inch of her skin. He had to wet his lips before he could speak.
“It would be an honor, ma’am.”
Slowly, like the first sight of approaching rain across the desert, he held out his hand.
When he made no move to come closer, she lifted it to her mouth and gently kissed it, rubbing her cheek over his scarred knuckles.
A choked gasp broke from him and she waited hopefully. When he still didn’t reach for her, she turned his hand over and laid gentle kisses on each callused fingertip. Finally she drew it against her breast and curved her head over it, until her hair poured protectively over his arm.
He shuddered, like a colt ready to bolt for freedom.
She waited, her breath suspended somewhere between heaven and hell, certain he must be able to feel her heart clamoring for him.
An instant later, his free hand stroked her cheek. The tentative touch sent warmth curling into her throat. She leaned closer to him and his fingers opened up to welcome her. His palm cupped sweetly around her head, rough with calluses yet strong and supple. She was perfectly safe from everything except her own desire for more contact with him.
Humming approval slipped out of her mouth and she nuzzled his fingertips.
“Portia, you are a wicked woman.” His voice was hoarser than usual. “Do you know how little sleep we’ll have if we spend the night enjoying each other in all the ways I can imagine? For starters, I’d like to lick you all over like a champagne ice, indulgent and intoxicating at the same time.”
His every syllable singed her veins until she quivered, her knees barely able to hold her.
“I could drink your kisses’ wine for hours,” she whispered. “Or stroke myself over you again and again, like a cat who knows where the exact combination of curves and textures always brings ecstasy.”
“You temptress.” He snatched her to him and she came eagerly. His fingers bit deep into her shoulders but the momentary pain only