Free A Fine Passion by Stephanie Laurens Page B

less was he hesitant. He asked for no permission as he angled his head and deepened the kiss—sweeping her into deeper waters.
    Waters in which she’d never before swum. The distant part of her mind that still functioned was shocked to discover herself outflanked, outmaneuvered, totally out of her depth. Plunged, not gently but forcefully into a world of sensation and hunger, where passion swirled, indistinct as yet, more mist and promise than solid reality, yet hot, demanding, and exciting nonetheless. Each press of his lips, each too-knowingly languid thrust of his tongue sent a lick of desire sliding through her.
    Sent heat through her flesh, weakening her limbs, melting her steel.
    Jack felt her hands slide up his chest, hesitate on his shoulders, then rise to frame his face. To grasp and hold tight as their lips fused, as he tasted her, as he learned just how much to his liking she was. Even locked deep in the kiss, in the immersion of his senses, he felt the touch of her cool fingers on his cheeks, on his jaw, felt reaction streak through him.
    Nearly cheered.
    He tightened his arms about her instead, greedily drawing her more fully against him. Flush, so he could feel her softness cradling him, sense the promise in the long, taut thighs pressed to his. Glory in the firmness of her breasts, in the ruched nipples poking his chest.
    Then she kissed him back—not just responded but clamped his head between her hands and pressed a voracious, hungry, defiantly passionate caress of lips and tongue upon him. She sent his senses careening as she leaned into him, into his embrace, and blatantly incited not just him, but herself.
    He knew that last instinctively, knew she was exploring as much as he had earlier, but not, in her case, the physical, as he had; she was wholly engrossed in the sensual. She wanted it, grasped the moment and all he offered, and stroked, caressed, learned, and left him aching.
    Beneath the clamor of his senses, something primal stirred, some part of him that hadn’t prowled in years but that now scented the right prey, lifted its head, and stretched. He savored her, luxuriated in her promise, in the heady invitation inherent in her bold and challenging response.
    And started to plot, to plan.
    Some small part of his mind was congratulating himself on the superiority of his instincts—he’d been wanting to kiss her for hours—and his good sense in acting so promptly in that regard, when footsteps sounded on the paved path.
    He lifted his head, instantly alert.
    He was smugly aware that a finite moment passed before, blinking, she refocused.
    And tensed. Before she could struggle he released her, setting her back on her feet. “The side path,” he said, voice low. “They haven’t seen us.”
    She glanced around, still a trifle dazed. She shot him a glance to see if he’d noticed; he pretended to be oblivious, looking past her to where Crawler had come into view, walking along a secondary path leading to the alcove.
    Crawler saw them; his grizzled face cleared. “Howlett said as he thought you’d headed this way.”
    Nearing, Crawler nodded to Jack, then his gaze switched to Clarice. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but if you’ve a minute when you’re finished with his lordship…?”
    Clarice flicked a glance Jack’s way. “I’m quite finished with his lordship. What can I help you with?”
    She moved, stepping closer to Crawler; Jack quashed a powerful urge to reach out and haul her back, and whisper in her ear that she was very far from being finished with him, or he with her.
    Not after that kiss.
    “I was wondering,” Crawler said, “if you’ve any ideas about that new mare Mr. Trelliwell’s been riding. Seems he feels she’s not up to his weight and wants rid of her. He’s asking a fair price, but I wondered if you’d heard any whispers—whether there was any other reason he wanted shot of her?”
    Boadicea smiled. Knowingly. Crawler’s eyes lit.
    “I heard,” she