Chapter 11

Sensing the challenge in Rhys's eyes, Lenore set the lantern safely on a shelf, then tilted the bottle up against her lips. She took a ladylike sip, then handed it back.

The near-darkness seemed to have heightened her senses, and her skin prickled with awareness of his proximity; the warmth of his body was a delicious contrast to the chill, damp air around them.

His swig was much deeper, and her stomach clenched at the realization that his lips were touching the same place hers had just been. It seemed oddly intimate.

His lips were positively sinful, too; full and firm, and when he tipped the bottle higher and swallowed again, his throat moved in a way that made her want to feel the muscles rippling against her fingers.

She took the bottle back and took a longer drink, desperate to cool the heat that was rising in her cheeks, and the liquid slid down her own throat, smooth and rich. When she lowered the bottle, she found him looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for her reaction.

"So? What do you think?" His voice was a little rougher than it had been. "What does it taste like to you?"

"Wine?" She teased, certain such a bland response would infuriate him.

He shook his head in mock horror. "Is that the best you can do? Try again." He pushed the bottle back toward her and she took another long swallow. It settled in her belly with a lovely warming sensation.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, "and concentrate on identifying the flavors in your mouth."

She did so, and he took another sip himself.

"This wine is beautifully complex," he murmured. "There are hints of smoke and tar, earth and leather. Maybe a little bit of spice at the back of your throat."

Lenore's skin felt flushed. His voice was as delicious as the wine, sliding over her like a velvet caress.

"I can detect a bit of smoky flavor," she admitted. "But I'm afraid I don't have your extensive experience."

"Have you ever been drunk before?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious. "And don't lie. I bet you have."

She opened her eyes. "A few times," she admitted wryly.

She took another drink. The wine seemed to be improving the more she tried it. "When we were shipwrecked, off Madagascar, we were able to rescue most of the stores from the ship, because it didn't sink, it just got stuck on a reef. Some of the men rowed out in lifeboats and brought all the wine back to shore. We drank most of it while waiting for rescue."

"That sounds like the perfect shipwreck," he smiled.

"The first—and worst—time was when Lucy and I stole a bottle of our father's special brandy. We were about sixteen, I think. Lucy was sick in the window box outside our room, and I decided to give myself a haircut with a pair of crimping shears. I woke up with one side of my hair three inches shorter than the other, and the worst headache I've ever encountered in my life."

Rhys snorted in amusement. "I once rode a donkey backwards through White's, because Gryff bet me ten shillings I was too drunk to stay seated."

"Did you fall off?"

"Absolutely," he grinned. "But only because Morgan was pelting me with fruit to make me lose my balance."

"You make me quite glad I never had brothers," she smiled.

"You're welcome to one of mine."

His dark eyes glittered in the flickering light as he leaned closer. "I must admit, I'm intrigued to find out what kind of drunk you are. Some fellows become quarrelsome and want a fight. Others get sad and start crying. A few even get amorous and try to compose love poetry."

"I'm think I'm a happy drunk," she said.

He waggled his eyebrows with a comical leer. "Scared I'll reveal my true Davies nature and steal a kiss while you're tipsy?"

She laughed. "You wouldn't. You might be a dastardly Davies, but you'd never take advantage of a woman like that."

"How do you know?"

"You were defending a woman against just such an offence the night we met. Gordon had insulted her or tried to kiss her—I didn't quite catch what— but you were the one who was administering his punishment for being so ungentlemanly."

"Ah." He looked a little embarrassed as he took another long pull from the bottle. "Well, Annabelle is one of Carys's friends, and she doesn't have any brothers of her own so I—"

"—punched him into a fountain on her behalf?" Lenore chuckled.

"Something like that." His lips quirked.

"A knight in shining armor, then," she teased. "Or rather, evening clothes."

Her gaze seemed to have become fixed on his lips. The wine was giving her a warm, fuzzy feeling. He had the most beautiful lips.

A surge of recklessness filled her. She leaned towards him, as if to impart a great secret. "Just so you know," she whispered. "I am not drunk right now."

Her heart was thundering with excitement, but she'd bided her time long enough. It was time to take a risk.

He leaned closer, too, trapping her against the bottles of wine stacked in the shelves. "No?"

She shook her head. The air between them was heavy, almost throbbing with anticipation.

His eyes bored into hers. "So, if I kissed you, for example, that wouldn't be taking advantage?"

"Definitely not," she breathed.

His face remained impassive, there was a twinkle in his eye that made her blood sing.

"Maybe I should try it, then."

He leaned in, and his warm breath stirred the tendrils of hair by her ear. A nervous thrill of anticipation twisted low in her belly.

His lips brushed her temple, and she heard him inhale softly, as if he were drawing in her scent, her essence, into his lungs. Her knees went weak, and she breathed in the delicious masculine smell of him; musky woods and clean sheets.

His lips danced along her cheekbone, deliberately teasing out the moment, and then his fingers cupped her jaw, then slid around the back of her head to tangle in her hair.

Her whole body tingled.

The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip, sliding across it, dragging it down, and she tilted her face up to his, desperate for him to close the distance and put her out of her misery.

When his lips finally pressed hers, she gave a little groan of relief and went up on her tiptoes to meet him. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when she opened her mouth at his insistent pressure, his tongue slid inside to tangle with her own.

Lenore closed her eyes in scandalized delight. She was kissing Rhys Davies! And it was glorious. Even better than her feverish imaginings.

He tasted of wine; smoky, rich, delicious. The lazy swirl of his tongue against hers was a slow, delicious seduction, fogging her brain, and making her knees weak.

He groaned, deep in his throat, a thrilling, masculine sound of torment and need, and her stomach clenched at the sound. She abandoned herself to the kiss, returning what he gave, silently urging him on. She pressed herself against him, full-length, feeling the warmth of his chest as it rested against hers, the strong columns of his legs.

Giving in to temptation, she ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, then up to touch the warm skin of his cheek. The slightly rough hint of stubble beneath her fingertips made her heart jolt, and she kissed him again and again, loving the swirling vortex of darkness and pleasure he conjured.

She'd never kissed anyone like this before, never dreamed it was possible, but it also felt incredibly right. As if her body recognized this man, this feeling of being home.

She wanted to do this forever.

The sudden scrape of feet on the stairs and the muffled echo of voices only vaguely intruded on her consciousness, but Rhys dragged his lips from hers with a groan that sounded almost pained.

"Bloody Hell. Someone's coming."

Lenore opened her eyes in sudden panic as she came back to earth with an unwelcome jolt.

"What?"

Rhys stepped back, releasing her, and she reluctantly dropped her hands from his face. Her soul felt as though it was being ripped from her chest.

Her lips were tingling, her cheeks flushed, and a strange swirling sensation gnawed in her belly. She knew what it was: lust. Desire. Need.

Oh, hell.

She glanced up at Rhys and found his gaze fixed on her lips, his chest rising and falling in rapid, panting breaths, and a surge of feminine satisfaction rushed through her. At least he looked as shaken as she felt.

He blinked, then shook his head, as if coming out of a trance, and cocked his head to listen for the unwelcome intruders.

"It's Lucy," Lenore whispered, easily recognizing the tones of her twin, despite the dark and distance. "And Will."

Rhys grabbed the lantern with his left hand and threaded the fingers of his right hand through hers. Lenore smiled at the gesture.

He bent to whisper in her ear. "You, Miss Montgomery, are the very worst distraction."

She grinned up at him, her heart strangely buoyant at the feeling they'd got away with something naughty.

Lucy and Will were traversing the left side of the room, and although Lenore and Rhys tried to sneak along their row, the light from their lantern gave them away.

"Hoi!" Will shouted. "Who's there?"

Rhys rolled his eyes in comical despair and shouted back. "It's Rhys. And Lenore."

"Lenore?" Lucy called over the racking. "Have you found the flag?"

Rhys shook his head just as Lenore shouted, "Not yet."

"Race you for it!" Will called, and Lenore could hear the rapid pounding of their footsteps as they started along their row.

"Quick!" she gasped, tugging Rhys's hand and pulling him along.

He held his lantern aloft, and they both looked frantically for the flag, moving as quickly as they could while making sure they didn't miss it. They turned into another aisle, then another, as Lucy and Will's lantern glow on the ceiling revealed the rows they were exploring.

"Found it!"

Lucy's triumphant shout echoed along the rows and Lenore let out a growl of frustration.

"Best twin wins!" Lucy taunted loudly.

"Luckiest twin wins," Lenore grumbled. In truth, she didn't mind too much. She was feeling rather lucky herself, and she'd happily give up the chance of finding the other flags if it meant Rhys would kiss her again.

He released her hand as they reached the end of their row and found Lucy and Will beaming with happiness near the bottom of the steps.

"Well done," Lenore managed, praying the darkness would conceal her flushed cheeks and well-kissed lips.

The other couple started back up the stairs and Lenore smoothed her skirts and took a steadying breath as she prepared to follow them.

Kissing someone in the shadows was one thing, a wicked secret buried deep beneath the earth, but how was she going to face Rhys in the harsh light of day?

Did he regret what they'd done? Would he dismiss it as something trivial, a lark not to be taken too seriously?

Lenore was almost afraid to find out.