"Because I want you. "
That silenced her. The four simple words were devastating, both to body and soul. Her stomach reacted with an ache of longing, her breath and heart lifted in unconscious response, and she felt. . . hot. . . damp. . . between her legs.
Reflexively she clamped her knees together, and his soft laugh told her he didn't miss her movement. "Come lie on the bed with me, Charlotte. I won't do anything you don't want me to do. And it's the only way you're going to get out of here in any timely manner. ”
He was Satan himself, she thought, because she was seriously considering his offer. She was tired, bone tired, and this chair was hard and uncomfortable.
And it was Rohan lying on that slightly rumpled bed—beautiful, haunted Adrian Rohan—who'd just said the very words she'd dreamed about for what must be years. Because I want you.
What would the harm wouldn't touch her body u would never happen. He'd sworn he would never rape. She could lie next to him on the bed, close enough to hear his heart beat, close enough to feel his body warmth. He might kiss her again. She could allow him to put his arms around her, chastely. To hold her Through the night, her one chance of lying in the arms of the man she loved. . .
No, she didn't love him. She didn't even know him, and his reputation was disreputable. But for some reason, sane, sensible, practical Charlotte Spenser had dreamed about the lost and beautiful viscount and his elegant hands, his bewitching mouth. And he was offering her all that beauty, and the lost soul that hid behind it.
Even in the darkness she could see his smile widen, the glitter of satisfaction in his bright, brilliant eyes. "Come to bed, Charlotte Spenser," he said softly, his voice a soft, impossible invitation.
And she did.
8
Adrian Rohan said nothing as Charlotte rose from the chair. She'd squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and crossed the few feet to the side of the bed, but he could see the faint nervousness, the slightest hint of trembling that she doubtless thought she'd hidden. Poor angel. If he were a kind man he'd summon the servant he'd sworn wasn't available and let her go free.
He wasn't a kind man.
He rose as she approached. She was not a short woman, but he was taller, and he was careful not to loom over her too badly. It wouldn't take much to spook her, and then he'd have to start the cajoling all over again, when all he wanted to do was lie down with her. Touch her face. Kiss her mouth. Fuck her senseless.
He could just imagine her reaction if he used those words. He'd have to peel her off the ceiling. He'd wait until it was a fait accompli, until she looked into his eyes and said "yes" and "please" and "now. " The bed was pushed up against the stone wall.
"You get to be on the inside" he said. She looked up at him. "Why?" "If you want to escape I'll let you," he said in a deliberately bored-sounding voice. "Just say 'let me up' and I will. In the meantime, I prefer to lie on the outside. ”
For a moment he thought she was going to balk. But a moment later she'd climbed up onto the bed, pulling the monk's robe up to crawl to the far side. She ended up tucked into the corner, trying to sink into the carved limestone, and he kept a straight face as he lay back down beside her.
"You and I are the only two who are going to sleep in this bed, angel," he said. "You really don't need to be so far away. "
He turned on his side, facing her. The tall candelabrum cast a decent amount of light onto her face, leaving him in shadows. He could see the fear in her eyes, on her full, pale mouth. It was too dark to see the gold flecks of her skin, but that was a small price to pay for getting her on her back beside him.
Which was patently absurd. He had never in his life gone to so much trouble to bed one woman. "Move closer, Charlotte," he said in a low voice.
She did. In the close quarters of the bed she smelled delicious. Wet grass, and honey, and heated female skin with its own, indescribable scent. Her wild red hair had been doing its best to escape confinement, and tendrils curled around her pale face.
He reached up a hand to push some of it out of her eyes, and she flinched, annoying him. "I'm not about to hurt you," he said dryly. "You do realize that, don't you?"
If she'd said no he might have been irritated enough to let her go. If she didn't know well enough by now that he wouldn't force her, then this was a lost cause.
Fortunately she didn't know how close she came to being released. "Yes," she said in a low voice.
“Yes, what?" he prompted her.
Her eyes met his. The changeable hazel eyes of most redheads—in the dark they looked almost black. Her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Yes, Lord Rohan?" she ventured.
He laughed. "No. Yes, I know you won't hurt me. Adrian," he added. "We're in bed together—you may as well call me Adrian. "
She jerked, startled, as if just realizing that they were, in fact, lying in the same bed. "I think Lord Rohan is more appropriate," she said in that starchy little voice of hers. Which was patently absurd, with her lying beside him in the shadowy room, her eyes wide, her mouth soft.
“Let’s not waste time discussing what is or isn’t appropriate. Appropriate behavior tends to be boring. I much prefer inappropriate goings-on. Lascivious riots. Isn't that what you called this?"
"Not this," she corrected him. "This is coerced proximity and nothing more. "
He touched one errant curl, his fingers brushing against her cheek, and this time she didn't flinch as badly. It was like breaking a horse, he thought. Patience, getting her used to his touch, his weight. He was very good with horses—one frightened, virginal spinster should be easy. At least she couldn't kick him in the head and kill him.