Chapter 23

P amela's breath quickened as the mirror revealed a man standing just behind her—a man dressed all in black, one with the shadows and soon to be one with her.

His eyes met hers in the mirror, the predatory gleam in their silvery depths reminding her just how dangerous he could be. Especially to her yearning heart.

As his gaze drifted downward, some ghost of maidenly shyness brought her hands up to shield her breasts. He simply slid his hands beneath hers so that his big, warm hands were cupping her breasts and her hands were resting lightly on top of his. She closed her eyes and sagged against him as he squeezed ever so gently, claiming them, claiming her.

"My sister is sleeping in the next room," she whispered as he used his thumbs to tease both of her nipples into taut little buds.

He rubbed his lips along the slender column of her throat, his voice a husky vibration she could feel all the way to her toes. "I'm a thief. I know how to be quiet."

As it turned out, Pamela was the one most at risk for waking Sophie. Connor might not have been able to make her the main course at supper, but he had no qualms about making her his private dessert. Before long she was quaking and shuddering beneath his clever mouth and biting her lip nearly bloody to keep from crying out her ecstasy.

When he bent her over the settee and began to pound into her from behind with driving force, he had no choice but to smother her sharp scream of pleasure with his hand.

And when they finally collapsed on the bed and he made love to her slowly and tenderly—gliding in and out of her as if he had not just all night, but the rest of his life to do so—he was forced to swallow her low moan of rapture with his kiss, while he came without a sound, every muscle in his powerful body surging as he spilled his seed deep within her.

When the strongest of the aftershocks had subsided, Connor threw himself to his back and flung an arm over his eyes, his sweat-sheened chest heaving. "Now I know who's trying to kill me."

Pamela sat up, raking her tangled hair out of her eyes. "Who?"

"You." He lowered his arm to glare at her. "You're an insatiable wench who won't be content until you've milked the last bit of life from my staff, leaving me a hollow shell of the man I once was."

She gave him an impish grin. "It's our new battle strategy for defeating the Scots. It's much quicker and more effective than a parasol." Propping herself up on one elbow, she idly raked her fingers through the crisp whorls of his chest hair. "You know—you really shouldn't tease so when someone might actually be trying to kill you."

He blinked innocently up at her. "So do you think I should have declined Crispin's invitation to archery practice?"

Her eyes widened in horror until she realized he was still teasing her. She gave his chest hair a vicious little tweak to punish him.

He winced. "I did learn something rather interesting yesterday morning at breakfast. It seems that Lady Astrid's dearly departed husband burned to death in his bed."

"Just like my mother," Pamela breathed.

"Astrid blames it on a bottle of brandy and a lit cigar, but who knows?"

Pamela clapped a hand over her mouth as genuine horror washed over her. "Oh, no!"

"What is it?"

"Don't you remember? The first night we met Crispin, I was trying to trick him into revealing something about my mother's death, so I mentioned ‘habitual drunkards who leave their cigars lit and burn to death in their beds.' I saw something in his eyes that I thought was guilt but it could have been hurt." She shook her head, shame mingling with her dismay. "He must have believed I already knew about his father's death and that I was being unspeakably cruel."

"It doesn't mean he's innocent, lass," Connor reminded her. "Witnessing such a terrible tragedy can sometimes warp a child's mind."

Remembering all the tragedy that Connor had witnessed, Pamela pressed her cheek to his chest, cherishing the slow, steady beat of his heart. "You won't be truly safe until we find my mother's killer. What if they don't reveal themselves before the wedding?"

"Announcing our engagement at the ball may just force their hand. They can't afford to risk me getting an heir on you."

After all of the decadent pleasures she had enjoyed at his hands in the past few hours, Pamela was amazed that she could still blush. "That's what Crispin said the first night at dinner. That you should strive to put your babe in me as quickly as possible in case you should meet with an unfortunate accident."

Connor tipped up her chin so he could gaze into her eyes, his solemn tone belied by the depth of his dimple. "In this case, the lad was right. 'Tis my duty."

Pamela gasped as he cupped her rump in his hands and rocked against her, proving he was not only willing, but more than ready to discharge his obligations. "I thought you were nothing but a hollow shell of a man."

He shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid your own duty to country and king isn't done yet, lass. If you want to defeat the Scots, you've no choice but to march right back into battle."

She reached down and lightly trailed her fingers over his rigid length. "And just how am I to defeat an enemy armed with such a formidable weapon?"

He arched off the bed and into her hand, clenching his teeth against a guttural groan. "The English have always been very resourceful. I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Oh, I already have." Pamela gave him a wicked smile, then began to slide down his body, the warm, wet velvet of her mouth working its way down, down, down until he was left with no choice but surrender.