The Lord and the Wayward Lady. Louise Allen

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      What she had done, she realized a split second too late, was to wind one arm around the viscount’s neck and bury her face against his naked chest. His free arm came round and held her to him, his breath rasping in his throat as she wriggled. She managed to pull herself up so they were face to face, so close she could feel his breath on her mouth, see, in the flashes of light as they passed lamps, that his eyes were intent on her face with a kind of focus that sent answering heat surging through her.

      He wanted her. Aroused, she supposed, by the chase, by the violence, by his half-naked state and her quivering body clamped to his, Marcus Carlow quite patently wanted her. And for an insane moment, she wanted him too, wanted that strength and the certainty and the sheer animal physicality that lay hidden beneath the veneer of the civilised gentleman.

      Desire must have shown in her eyes, or perhaps in the way her breath caught, and he saw it, recognized it. His mouth, when it took hers, was hot and hard. Not polite, not questioning. He had seen the need in her; it met his and so he acted on it.

      For a moment it was what she wanted, what she had dreamt of, powerfully erotic, all-consuming, sweeping her away from reality. He made no allowance for inexperience, his tongue thrusting into her mouth with arrogant demand, his lips sealing over hers, his arm shifting her to lie across his legs so she could feel the shameless jut of his erection against her buttocks.

      What broke the spell, she did not know. Some sound, the play of the shadows, a touch? She could not be sure, but the dark memories flooded back and with them the shame and the fear. She was no longer a willing partner in this embrace, this primal sharing of heat and breath and desire. She was afraid, hurting, overwhelmed and helpless. Blindly, Nell struck out, fighting, desperate against the man imprisoning her.

      One moment his arms were full of supple, warm, yielding woman, the next a fury was struggling to be free, hands and heels flailing, her gasps of passion replaced by sobbed words. ‘No, no, no...’

      Dizzy with loss of blood, with desire and pain, Marcus opened his hands. ‘Nell, don’t. I won’t—Nell, it is all right.’ She recoiled from him, wrenching free the arm that had been around his neck, her clenched fist striking his wounded shoulder like a hammer blow. The pain was exquisite, the world went dark. With what remained of his strength, he pulled her back against his body. ‘Nell...safe.’

      ‘My lord!’ Wellow’s voice? The butler seemed to be shouting down a well. Had he fallen down one? That would explain why there was all this pain. Marcus decided he had broken his shoulder; that was logical. It explained why he was cold and hurting, but it did not explain why he was sitting on something that rocked, or what the light against his closed eyes was.

      Reluctantly, Marcus dragged his lids open and prepared to deal with this. Only he was not down a well and he appeared to be in his own carriage outside his own front door, half-naked and with Wellow and three footmen all peering anxiously at him from the pavement. ‘What the hell?’

      ‘Get him inside,’ said a decisive and irritated female voice from behind him. ‘And send for the doctor. He has been shot; the bullet is not in the wound but he has lost blood. Hurry up, if you please! He will catch his death from cold out here.’

      ‘Managing female,’ he muttered, amused despite himself. If he could only recall who she was and why—

      ‘Well, someone has to be,’ she snapped.

      Oh yes, Miss something... ‘Nell. You taste of cherries.’

      ‘You will have to carry him,’ she continued, ignoring this. ‘It will take all of you, he is so big.’

      ‘Not helpless. can walk.’ Marcus got himself upright by hauling one-handed on the doorframe. Hands reached out as he stumbled down the step to the pavement, then a shoulder was thrust under each arm and the footmen began to walk him towards the door. ‘Damn it, I’m not drunk!’

      ‘No, my lord.’ That was Richards’ soothing murmur. ‘Of course you’re not. We’ll just get you into the warm, my lord.’

      The heat and light of the hall made him shudder, suddenly realizing just how cold he was. Marcus freed himself from his supporters and straightened up. He was damned if he was going to be half carried to his own bed, felled by some chit with a pocket pistol.

      It was coming back now. And it had not been some chit, it had been Nell Latham and she might have wounded him, but she had kept her head and stopped the bleeding despite being thrown into a carriage on top of the man who had frightened her so much.

      He turned slowly on his heel to find her facing him, chin up, her arms full of bloodied shirt and ruined coat. And then his memory presented himself with the damnably precise image of what had happened next. He’d kissed the woman, ravished her mouth like a wounded barbarian dragging home a prize from the hunt. Her eyes widened as he stared at her, the fear flaring again as though she expected him to seize her, there and then, and force her on the marble floor.

      ‘Peters, take those clothes from Miss Latham and show her into the White Salon. Bring her warm water and a towel for her hands. Richards, send for the doctor; the man may as well take up residence here at this rate. Wellow, have Allsop come down to the library with a shirt and my dressing robe.’ The doctor could see to him down there; no point in making a fuss and attracting the attention of the family. ‘And, Wellow, there is no need to disturb Lord or Lady Narborough or my sis—’

      ‘Marcus!’

      ‘Honoria, quiet, please! Papa will hear.’

      She ran across the hall to him, her eyes wide, her cheeks pale at the sight of the blood on his chest and the makeshift bandage. But being Honoria, there was excitement and vivid curiosity behind the concern. ‘What happened? And who is this?’

      ‘This is Miss Latham who came to my aid when I was shot,’ he said smoothly. ‘If you could just take her into the salon—’

      ‘Marcus!’

      ‘Mama.’ Was he fated never to get a sentence finished? Marcus gritted his teeth and produced what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I have suffered a minor flesh wound, Mama. Thanks to Miss Latham it is under control, the bleeding has stopped. I have sent for the doctor. Could you all go into the White Salon so I can get changed and Miss Latham can sit down? She has had a somewhat trying evening.’

      Lady Narborough gave a little gasp at the sight of his blood-smeared naked torso, but nodded, took Honoria’s arm and smiled back at him. ‘Of course. If Dr Rowlands is on his way, I am sure there is nothing to worry about. Come along, Honoria. Miss Latham, we are so grateful for your help.’

      Miss Latham coloured up, he saw. As well she might, seeing that she had shot him in the first place. It was something that she could blush, he supposed. ‘Lady Narborough, it was really the least I could do. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go home.’

      ‘But, Miss Latham, remember what we discussed?’ He moved to her side, smiling down at her. Her eyes widened as though he had snarled instead. Perhaps he had. ‘I really do not feel it is safe for you to do anything but stay here at the moment.’

      ‘Safe?’ Marcus felt a twinge of admiration for the way she held his eyes with hers. Her chin came up. ‘I see you are serious about the threat,’ she murmured, her voice dropping as she glanced sideways at the other women.

      ‘Not a threat. I never threaten, Miss Latham. It was a promise.’

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