Free The High Sheriff of Huntingdon by Anne Stuart Page B

her legs.
    She tried to hit him then, but he ignored her, his hands clasping her thighs, holding her in place. She squirmed against him, but it only b rou g h t his mouth tighter, hotter against her most secret places. This was his revenge, his torment , his degradation, and she hated him, she hated him, she…
    Began to like it. Her breath caught in her lungs as a tight, spiraling sensation curled in the pit of her stomach a n d fanned outward. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, she wanted to die; she wasn’t sure what she wanted except for him to stop, to keep on. Her heels dug into the pile of velvet beneath her, the soft breeze danced across her skin, and she knew he had to be the son of the devil himself And then her body exploded, splintered into a thousand stars, and she heard a low, animal-like shriek, and knew, to her shame, that it came from her own throat.
    He slid up, c o v e rin g her, his hips resting between her legs as he threaded his hands through her thick hair. “Did you like that, my pretty little nun?” he murmured.
    She couldn’t catch her breath. Her face was wet with tears, and she was lost, confused. “You’re a monster,” she gasped. “A devil, a cruel, rapacious beast…” His mouth stopped hers, and without hesitation she kissed him back, fi e rcely, her arms sliding tightly around his neck, holding him hard against her body.
    He lifted his head. “We’re not finished yet,” he said.
    “No,” she answered.
    He lever ed his body away from hers a few scant inches, and she felt chilled to the bone. “No?” he echoed in a mocking, reasonable voice.
    She was a good, holy woman, a keeper of the faith, one who had never blasphemed in her life. “God damn you,” she said. “Yes.” And s h e pulled him back against her.

5
    Alistair Darcourt had bedded many women in his life, so many that he’d long ago lost count. But all those faceless, nameless women hadn’t had the power to move him like the small, slender woman lying beneath him, staring up at him with a mixture of anger and desire .
    He threaded his long fingers through her silken hair , molding her skull beneath his hands. S o fragile, so de ceptively meek. He’d been a fool to marry—he simply should h a v e taken Dunstan Woods for taxes. Sir Hugh of Gaveland wouldn’t have dared to defy him, and the woman who’d already begun to twist and turn into the fabric of his life would still be safely in her convent.
    He could send her back. Keep her immured there, away from the sight and touch of men. It was almost an acceptable alternative. As long as no other man touched her, he could forget about her.
    But priests were men, despite their vows of celibacy. And he’d seen his own cousin’s reaction to her.
    He had two choices. He could bed her, take her body until he tired of it. He could get sons from her, wear her out, and then send her back to her convent, or stash her in one of his own smaller houses, away from temptation. Or h e could save himself a gr e a t of trouble and simply kill her now.
    P eo ple said he h a d witch’s eyes: his mother’s eyes, an eerie golden color that could look into people’s souls and fe rr e t out their secrets. They were nothing compared to the limpid blue of his pale bride. She lay beneath him, her white - blonde hair fanned out around h e r . The cool intelligence in her eyes disconcerted him, particularly when she made no e f f o rt to disguise her confused desire for him.
    “ A r e you going to do it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but unnervingl y calm.
    He pressed a g a i n s t her, w on d e r i n g if she even rec ognized his arousal. From the faintly shocked expression in her eyes, he d e c i d e d she had a fairly good notion. “I thought we already made that clear. ”
    “ I m ea n are you g o i n g to kill me?”
    It was almost enough to un m an him. “What makes you say that?” he countered cautiously. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to c o v e r her