The Wicked One by Danelle Harmon

Author:Danelle Harmon [Harmon, Danelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, Georgian, 1700s, Historical
ISBN: 9780380809097
Google: tJ45GwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0380809095
Barnesnoble: 0380809095
Goodreads: 325771
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2001-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

He didn't say a word. Not one word. And as Eva sank further down into the blanket's protection and stared into the gloom, she could only wonder why she suddenly felt so empty and alone. Why her whole body felt as primed as a gun that had never been fired. Waiting. Wanting.

Yes, she knew men.

But maybe she didn't know herself as well as she'd thought she did.

Chapter 17

Though the air inside the coach was still and cold, Lucien had no need of a blanket. Unrequited lust still pounded in his veins, swelled his loins; he was so damned hot he couldn't breathe.

Not just hot, but angry.

Not just angry, but downright furious.

Savagely, dangerously, furious.

He looked at the woman curled up on the seat opposite and didn't know what he wanted more: to throttle her or take her like some conquering sultan. He shut his eyes and relived the scene that had prompted his lamentable lack of control. Eva, calmly confronting the highwaymen. Eva, dispatching them with cunning and skill. Eva, never wavering, never unsure, brimming with rare and beautiful courage . . . and returning to the coach as though she'd done nothing more than step outside for a breath of fresh air, her wicked green eyes glowing with unspoken invitation, her very words demanding the admiration he was so very willing to give her.

She was a tease.

A heartless, dangerous, tease.

And in that moment he hated her almost as much as he wanted her.

The miles passed beneath them, and he remained silent and still, imprisoned by his own torment. Sleep was out of the question. And there was nowhere to direct his gaze but on her, curled up beneath the blanket, one long tendril of hair falling from the hood she'd made of its folds and teasingly draping, lovingly curling around, one breast. Damn her. She was a beautiful, treacherous creature, Salome, Aphrodite, and Diana all wrapped in one. And looking at her in sleep, it was almost possible to imagine her as something she wasn't — an innocent, trusting soul, untarnished by life and open to all the wondrous experiences it had to offer.

If only, he thought bitterly.

What had happened to make her the way she was? Was it something that could be mended? Something that could be overcome? He looked at her, sleeping like the innocent child she must once have been, and felt his anger fading . . . only to be replaced by such fierce protectiveness, it was nearly too much for his heart to contain. He wished she could be like this always, instead of guarded, distrustful and sarcastic; wished the barriers that separated them when she was awake could be banished, as they now were in sleep.

Wished he could wake her with gentle kisses and caresses, and slake the desire that even now made his blood pound, his nerves raw, his skin damp and hot.

Her last words came back to him.

Really, Blackheath, don't be obtuse. I know men. I know how they think.

A wry smile twisted his lips.

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