Free Megan Frampton by Hero of My Heart

hand like a kitten yearning for her touch, his lips warm against her palm.
    She trailed her fingers down the side of his face, onto his neck, feeling his pulse beating rapidly against her hand. “Shh,” she whispered nonsensically; he wasn’tspeaking, but she felt the need to soothe him nonetheless.
    His skin was hot, sticky with sweat, and a few drops of perspiration dotted his chest.
    For a moment, Mary thought about bending her head down to lick it off his skin. She could almost taste the saltiness of him, his musky essence swirling around her nose.
    He was ill. Ill, and she wanted nothing more than to reach down and lick him. What had happened to her?
    Just a few days ago, she’d been a vicar’s spinster daughter, teaching school and doing good works. She’d never thought about anything in the least bit salacious, not even when Mr. Hardesty, her father’s assistant, had admired her apple cobbler with enough enthusiasm as to make his point perfectly clear.
    It must be the events of the last two days. Why should she be denied pleasure or gratification?
    In essence, she was a good, modest person. But a person who relished life, and wanted to be happy.
This
made her happy, and she didn’t see the point of denying herself any longer.
    And she wanted this, wanted it with a desperate urge she’d never felt before.
    She shook her head at herself, but continued to slide her fingers down his skin, trying to bring some peace to his body through her hands. He was arching his back off the bed now, his hair damp with sweat. There was a line of sweat at the waistband of his breeches, and Mary wondered if she should try to get them off him so he would be more comfortable. But his comfort would be directly proportional to her discomfort, so she just pulled the linens up over his body instead.
    “Please,” he begged. His eyes had the same haunted look they’d had that morning, when he’d woken from his nightmare.
    “What do you want, Alasdair?” She spoke in a whisper.
    “I want you,” he replied, his eyes shuttering closed.
    She was opening her mouth to reply—not that she knew what she’d say—when the door flew open with a crash.

Chapter 7
    Bang!
    Mary twisted to look at the door as two men burst into the room.
    “What can I—?” Mary rose to her feet, frantically straightening her gown to cover herself.
    The first man barely glanced at her, thank goodness, focusing all of his attention on the marquess. He had the same haughty air as Alasdair, but didn’t wear the authority nearly as well. He had dark-brown hair, carefully arranged, and was wearing what even Mary could tell was fashionable clothing. He was of medium height and carried a gold-tipped cane.
    What was most arresting about him, however, was the intense look of hatred on his face as he stared at the man on the bed. Mary flinched as she met his eyes, and instinctively moved so that she was shielding the marquess with her body.
    “Ah, dear cousin,” the man drawled. “How fortuitous to find you here.”
    “Hugh. The pleasure is mine,” Alasdair said. “I assume you’ve been having me followed?” Even though his voice was weak, Mary could hear the unconscious arrogance that was threaded through it.
    She marveled to think that even horizontal, sweating, half-naked, and in pain, he could still be so much in command.
    Alasdair’s cousin moved closer to the bed, a smirk of satisfaction on his well-bred face. The second man, clutching a large, black leather bag, also advanced farther into the room. He gazed around the shabby room with a moue of distaste on his face.
    “It appears you are in even more need of my assistance than I thought, Datchworth,” Hugh said. His eyes flicked up and down Mary’s body, and even though everything about him was faultlessly tidy, she felt as if he had put an unclean hand on her. He gestured to the other man. “Dr. Grimes is here to assist you.”
    Alasdair struggled up to a seated position, leaning his head against