Free Bewitching by Jill Barnett

made a fumbled attempt to put it back. A hard male hand gripped her wrist.
    "I'll do it." He reached toward the lamp, and his shadow fell over her. It was dark and cold, like the duke himself, and yet she could feel his warmth, smell the raw scent that seemed to emanate from him and him alone. Like the salty breath of the sea, it pulled her in an ebbing wave. It was like a physical presence surrounding her. He put the wick key back, turned up the lamp, and started to move back, but stopped, looking down at her, his intense face barely inches above hers.
    She raised her eyes to his and could almost taste his breath. If she moved just a wee bit, their lips would touch. His gaze held her frozen, locked in an instant of time where hearts cried out. She could not move, but she didn't wish to and had no regret about her poverty of will. This was like being caught in a moonbeam—the only light in a vast void of darkness. The darkness was there; his face warned her away with its tightness. But the glint in his eyes said don't go.
    His grip on her wrist tightened, hard, imprisoning her. Her pulse pounded against the pad of his thumb. Her heart felt as if it were somewhere around her ears, thundering inside her head. She could feel her hand going numb and the resulting tingle—her blood turning into a thousand star-points. His eyes pierced her with their heat. She had thought his eyes cold—an icy dark blue—yet how odd that she perspired from his look. Dampness beaded and trickled between her breasts, on her arms, and on the backs of her thighs.
    Still holding her wrist, he moved back, breaking the bewitching magic that felt stronger than a warlock's spell. She remembered to breathe. He stared at her wrist with an odd expression, as if he had just noticed he held it. Her fingers brushed his as if to say it was all right. His grip slackened, and she felt the blood rushing back to her fingers. It matched the feeling in her chest.
    For a brief second she thought she felt his thumb gently rub her wrist, but it all happened so quickly that she was not sure that it had actually happened. An instant later he sat beside her, staring sightlessly out the window into the white fog.
    Again she breathed the cooling air, and with that breath came an awareness of something other than this man. The quiet. The only sound in the carriage was the muted pounding of the horses' hooves, the jangle of harness and braces, and the occasional creak of springs as the vehicle moved along the road. It was as if her senses had come back to her. Male smells dominated the interior—damp leather, tobacco, and brandy. The air tasted stale, hard, and male in her dry mouth. Instinctively she reached for Beezle and absently scratched his fur, aware that it would be soft and plush. After that exchange she needed to touch something soft and familiar.
    The loud clearing of a masculine throat cut through the air. She flinched, startled. It was the cynical earl, and she looked at him, expecting a sneer. That wasn't what she saw. As sure as heather bloomed on the moors, he watched her, but his look was speculative, and it made her uneasy—a different kind of restlessness than she felt from the duke. The earl was an odd man, and she didn't like him much. There was anger inside him, raw and festering, a wound untended. He was rude, enjoyed his brashness, seemed to wallow in it, and his smile was too practiced.
    One could tell volumes about a person from a smile. The nervous viscount stared out the window and muttered under his breath. But he had smiled at her, and it was sincere. Cocking her head, she looked at the duke and tried to picture his face with a smile, but she had no luck. Even her mind's eye could not see him as anything but focused and intense.
    She gave up and settled back, looking out the window as did the others, until the coach finally pulled into a timbered coaching inn. A warm yellow glow from its diamond-paned windows lit their approach with a strange