Free Susan Johnson by Outlaw (Carre)

fingertips drifting over his face? In some unknown, secret part of her being, she wanted to be able to
make
him respond; she wanted, inexplicably, in some feminine, enigmatic way, to touch him intimately.
    He offered himself openly to women. A natural posture for him. As natural, she didn’t doubt, as it was for him to accept what they gave him in return.
    And he was offering her a degree of that freedom now … however unspoken the invitation.
    But she quelled her unspoken wishes and undefined feelings because she didn’t wish to be like Janet Lindsay—conveniently available for a night. With Johnnie Carre she’d be too easily forgotten, and her pride deterred her.
    He was too beautiful and charming and overtly sensual to have to petition.
    He was simply there for the asking.
    And she wouldn’t ask.
    At the price of eight years of her young life, she had a fortune now, and she intended to prudently use her hard-won wealth to create a protected garden of Eden for herself in Northumbria. Johnnie Carre, arch pragmatist and worldly sensual man, wouldn’t fit into her planned paradise.
    So her voice was temperate and calm when she spoke, her expression schooled to betray nothing.
    “You have a message?” she said.
    “Yes, your father has agreed to a time and place.” He kept his voice as neutral as hers. “We ride for Round-tree in the morning to make the exchange. I thought I’d give you warning tonight.”
    “So your brother will soon be home.”
    “Yes.” He smiled, his happiness a tangible thing.
    “Let me thank you now, then, for your hospitality. The morning will be frantic, no doubt.”
    “No doubt.” He smiled again.
    She was remarkable, he reflected. Cool and collected, without subterfuge, a woman genuinely composed. Was that coolness attributable to a marriage without passion, or had she always been so self-controlled? How would it be, he wondered, at sixteen, to lie with a seventy-year-old man, or at eighteen or twenty-four?
    He wished to make her feel the difference, he suddenly thought, although an instant later he contemplatedhow presumptuous his arrogance was. Perhaps she was abundantly familiar with young lovers.
    “Have you had lovers?” he asked, unreasoning, without contemplation, the plain question like thunder in the quiet room.
    Like thunder in her heart
. But Elizabeth subdued her tremulous reaction, considering instead the consequences when apparently he did not, and said, very coolly, “I beg your pardon.”
    With most men that chill disclaimer would have been enough.
    “Tell me,” he said.
    She drew herself up very straight, as if her physical stance would act as barrier or still her racing heart. “I don’t have to tell you. And might I remind you … we’re not alone.”
    He glanced quickly at Helen, as though he’d forgotten her presence, and when she appeared quite lucidly in his field of vision, he told her, “Go.”
    “Stay,” Elizabeth commanded.
    He was surprised to be countermanded. No one had dared since he’d come home from Paris at his father’s death eight years ago to become Laird. He hesitated a brief moment before he gestured toward the door with the merest nod of his head.
    Helen gazed at Elizabeth for a heartbeat, apology in her look, and then left the tower room.
    “Will you force me?” Elizabeth inquired as the door clicked shut, sarcastic in her anger. Like Johnnie, she’d been seldom thwarted in the last few years, save for the occasionally oppressive bonds of matrimony imposed by Hotchane.
    “Of course not.” The thought was incomprehensible. “Answer my question.”
    “About my lovers, you mean.” Haughty, she demonstrated the arrogance commensurate with her rank of heiress.
    “Of course,” he said again, but his voice was softer now. In control again, familiar with seduction, he relaxed. “Have you?”
    “Why does it matter?”
    “I don’t know. It shouldn’t.”
    “Then I won’t answer.”
    “Why so defensive?” he mildly