"I do not wish to give you anything." The words came out in a breathy rush, jumbling together in their haste to leave her tongue. They were a pitiful attempt to deny her feelings, her overwhelming desire for him. If she did not force the lie out quickly, she would not be able to say it at all.

Emma's retreat brought her to the wall. Her back pressed against the solid surface. Burying her fingers in the coa.r.s.e weave of her skirt, she thought of her mother's warnings, ringing in her ears from the time she was a child, and she thought of Meg. The babe's father ain't going to claim it, or me. Quality never do.

Was that what she wanted? To be like Meg? Like her mother? Pregnant and alone? She would jeopardize her place here, her chance to make a difference in Nicky's life, her opportunity to love and raise him.

A low moan of distress escaped her.

Looking at him, the perfection of Anthony Craven, Emma tried to sort through her thoughts. He offered her nothing. But was that true? He did not offer marriage. Respectability. Home and children. But she had no chance of those, regardless. He offered her a taste of life. For a moment, a week, a month, she could have him. And when it was done, she would have the memories of him for a lifetime. The idea was a temptation of the most compelling kind.

"Why me?" she asked breathlessly. "You could dally with a village girl, or go to London. I am certain you would have little trouble satisfying your-" She stopped abruptly, unable to form the words to accurately reflect the shadowy picture in her mind.

"I could," he agreed, apparently taking pity on her. Allowing her the dignity of leaving her thoughts unspoken.

Why me? Why me? Her question hung between them, unanswered. Emma had the sudden insight that perhaps he could not explain their attraction. He simply felt it, as did she.

"I could not endure it if you send me away. From Nicky, I mean. I do love him, Anthony." Her breath came in short, shallow gasps that accentuated each sentence she spoke.

She ought to make a sensible decision, though that hardly seemed possible while her heart pounded in her chest and her mind invented unfulfilled images of Anthony touching her. And she touching him.

He held her pinned by his hot gaze, plundering her soul with the desire she read there. "The way your breath catches as you whisper my name pleases me." He took another step closer.

With a quick dart of her tongue Emma wet her lips. They felt swollen. She felt swollen. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and there, between her legs.

He took his time crossing the remainder of the s.p.a.ce that separated them. His gaze remained locked on hers and she thought he must know the secrets of her deepest thoughts, her private yearning, her unutterable confusion.

"Do you understand what goes on between a man and a woman?" His voice was soft, pouring over her like warm honey.

Unable to speak, Emma nodded. One could hardly grow up in a rural setting and not acquire some basic knowledge of procreation. Though she doubted that human activities were an exact replica of barnyard animals, she had a basic idea that two bodies merged as one. And when she had lived with her aunts, Annie, the downstairs maid, had been fairly forthcoming in her tales of the nocturnal activities in which she had partic.i.p.ated in, along with suggestions of how a girl could avoid getting with child.

Anthony leaned closer, the luscious scent of him and the heat of his body such potent lures. She had ample time to flee, to deny the craving that gnawed at her feminine core with an intensity that was almost painful. Though her mind warned her that her chosen course was folly, she stood unmoving, her back pressed against the solid wall.

Her body wanted this, ached for it. She wanted this, wanted him.

She gasped as Anthony's palm came flat against the wall, just above her left shoulder. Turning her head, she looked at his splayed fingers, and then returned her gaze to his.

"I do not wish to be a sensible girl," Emma whispered. Her heart pounded in delicious expectation, and she was darkly, fiercely glad that he had come to her.

He made a sound low in his throat, half groan, half laugh. It triggered a crashing wave of desire that tore through her body with the violence of a storm. Emma was thankful for the support of the wall at her back, else she might have melted into a boneless puddle at his feet. The sound of her breathing-or was it his?-registered in her mind, harsh and rough.

Again she licked her lips. He took it as an invitation, leaning forward enough to run his tongue along the corner of her mouth. She cried out softly, stunned by the contact. As her lips parted, he pressed his mouth to hers. His tongue slid inside, just a bit, just enough to let her taste him. And then deeper, lips and tongue and teeth. Wet dark pleasure.

He braced himself on outstretched arms, holding his body from her, touching her only with his mouth. It was not enough. The tips of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s strained against the cloth of her bodice. Emma arched her spine, wanting more, wanting to feel the whole of his hard length pressed against her. Such heat. Such need.

"Ah-h-h-h." A lingering, slow exhalation resonated with her pleasure as Anthony deliberately lowered his weight, pinning her to the wall, his long body molding to hers, his muscled thigh between her own. Lush sensation, foreign and far too enticing.

She inhaled through his mouth, through hers, light-headed with longing, the taste and feel of him spilling through her with that luscious endless kiss. With a low groan he slid his body on hers, rubbing against her as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, making her ache and want and gasp, on fire for him. Tilting her head, she sucked him deeper, then caught his lower lip between her teeth, biting, sucking, sliding her hands around his waist, and lower, until her palms pressed against the hard globes of his b.u.t.tocks, the cloth of his breeches soft and smooth to her touch.

She curled her fingers, felt the fine flex of muscle as she pulled him closer, rubbing slowly back and forth, moving with blind instinct, her hips tight to his, and the wet, throbbing heat of her desire pounding at her core. Poised on the edge of a precipice, if she simply took a step she would fall into...into...something. But she had no idea which way to step, how to relieve this pressure that built inside her like steam inside a covered cooking pot. She was boiling and churning- "Oh, please. Oh, I...I need..."

Pulling back, he looked down at her and pressed his fingers to her lips, cutting off what she might have said. Emma slid her tongue into the crack between his fingers, licking, tasting. A sharp hiss of air escaped him, and she felt a profound feminine thrill, for whatever wild yearning writhed at her core, its mate lived within him. She felt it calling to her.

"You want me," she whispered, half seductress, half pleased innocent.

"I do." His voice was deep and raspy. So masculine.

A last vestige of common sense made her speak. "You will honor your word...you will not send me away from Nicky? When we are done? When it is over?" Oh, that she was so beguiled by him, that the words escaped her on a breathy gasp, that she truly intended to deny all she had been, all she was, the illegitimate daughter of a woman who had made exactly this mistake.

At her question, something shifted in his eyes, heat and need fading to cool bottle-green gla.s.s. She frowned, oddly distressed, sensing a change in him as he slowly blew out a breath and pulled away.

"No." All her disappointment centered in that one word, crushing, terrible disappointment as he pulled back even further. She loved the feel of his kiss, the way his lips and tongue stroked, caressed, and his teeth, gentle nips and slow bites. More. She wanted more.

"Shh...shh...." Anthony stroked her hair, leaning forward to press his lips to her temple. She wriggled against him, wanting the press of his hips flush with hers. She had been so close, so close to...to some unknown thing that would happen if he would only push his hips back where they had been, if he would only kiss her as he had a moment past.

"Greedy girl," he murmured, as though reading her thoughts. Or perhaps she had whispered her need.

Lost. The moment was lost. She could sense it in him, and she wished she grab hold and pull back whatever it was she had said that changed his mood so.

"Am I the first to kiss you?" he asked, one brow lifting. There was something in his tone. Though he was not smiling, she thought he might be laughing at her, enjoying some dark, private humor.

Knowing she could not possibly speak, Emma nodded her head. The kiss they had shared in the field the day before he left, and now this...this kiss that made a lovely pulsing need throb hot and wet in her loins.

"This from an innocent." Now he did laugh, the sound grating, rife with self-mockery. "You would kill me in my bed, Emma Parrish. I should die from exhaustion, I suspect. And likely I would love every moment of it."

She frowned at his words, not grasping his meaning. At length, her heart slowed its breakneck pace, and her breathing could almost be described as normal. She licked her lips slowly, enjoying the feel of her tongue against the soft skin, the taste of him that lingered still.

"I don't understand."

"I know." He ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. "I am thinking that I am a lucky man to have discovered you. And that I am a fool not to take advantage of my good fortune."

What is it? What have I done wrong? Emma fought the urge to reach out and drag him back against her. One minute he was kissing her, touching her, rubbing his body against her until she thought she might go mad, and the next he was gone. Walled off from her behind that icy reserve. "Why?" she whispered.

His expression altered as he stared at her, a subtle shift that changed him from lover to remote lord. "I can offer you nothing but a mindless dalliance. You deserve far more, and I am incapable of giving it. When you asked if I would honor my word...you reminded me that you deserve to be treated honorably." He frowned, glanced away then back. "You are a woman of rare integrity, Emma mine. You merit far better treatment and consideration."

So she had stopped him with her words. Unwittingly. A part of her was so very proud that she had saved herself from disgrace, from ruination, from the path of the same terrible mistake that had been her mother's. But, oh, her body ached with the disappointment of the broken spell.

Stepping away, he bent and retrieved her discarded broom, then crossed the room to lift the bucket of dirty water. Emma watched his strange actions, feeling bereft and confused. He was correct. She did deserve more, and she was horrified that for even the briefest moment she had considered accepting less.

Anthony turned to face her with a clear look of regret. "Do you remember, Emma, when I told you that I am not a kind man?"

"Yes." Her every feeling-relief, disappointment, dismay-poured into that single word.

"I am about to do something kind, though I am sure that a certain part of my anatomy will ill appreciate my generosity." He made a crude gesture toward the rigid prominence that strained the b.u.t.tons of his breeches.

Emma glanced away, at once offended and equally fascinated. She suspected he had known exactly what he was about, had spoken so crudely on purpose to distance himself from her.

"And what is this kindness you speak of?" she asked, though she already knew.

"I want you Emma Parrish." Words spoken low and rough, sending a fresh wave of longing pulsing through her. She stared at the floor, unable to look in his eyes. "I want to take the clothes from your body, touch you, your legs, your waist, your b.r.e.a.s.t.s while I pin you beneath me, warm and willing. I want to thrust myself inside you, my tongue in your mouth, my body pushed deep inside yours."

"I..." What? What could she say to that? She had thought to kiss him, to press herself against him and run her hands over his corded muscle. Through the safety of shirt and breeches. She had thought no further though she had claimed she had. When he asked her if she knew the way of a man and a woman, she had said she did. There was no lie to the words, but she had not thought what they meant. To her. To him. Dear heaven. My body pushed deep inside yours. The words made her feel flushed, confused, strangely enticed and repelled all at once.

He blew out a slow breath. "I shall refrain from accepting the precious treasure that you offer." Her gaze slammed back to his, and she found him watching her through eyes hard and bright, edged with barely banked l.u.s.t. Then his expression softened, and his next words were spoken in a tone of wonder. "Because I find that I like you, Emma Parrish. Truly, and in the finest sense of the word. And more than that, I admire you. Strange, to say those words." He shook his head. "I admire your courage, your honest and true heart."

His a.s.sertion made her heart swell in a terrible mixture of elation and despondency. Such idle commentary to him, but to her, the finest compliment she had ever heard. He admired her, and she could hear in the cadence of his speech, the soft incredulity of it, that his thoughts surprised him. And how did she feel about that?

"I have no wish to see you ruined. You are saved by my fond regard." A rueful smile curved his lips. "And I am d.a.m.ned by it." He exhaled slowly, a harsh huff of air. "I shall return these things to the scullery for you."

Turning from her, Anthony lifted the cleaning implements that he had gathered and quit the room, leaving Emma alone and baffled. Lord Anthony Craven had cleared the room, no better than any scullery maid, sloshing dirty water on his fine boots, and all to escape her simple wiles.

You are saved by my fond regard.

"Saved?" She drew a shaky breath, struggling to let go of the tight yearning that wound her in knots, the longing for him. "Saved from you for the moment, perhaps," she whispered. "But what will save me from myself?"

Emma paused to gather her composure outside Lord Anthony's library the following afternoon. She was wary of him, of being alone with him, tied in knots by the heated recollections of his touch, his kiss, the press of his muscled body on hers. When Mrs. Bolifer had requested that she carry a message to the library, it had been all Emma could do not to turn and bid the housekeeper deliver it herself, but Nicky was well occupied helping Cookie bake a cake, leaving Emma without a viable reason to decline the housekeeper's request.

She did not want to face him yet.

Through the partially open door she watched as Lord Anthony paced his library like a caged beast. Twelve paces across. Twelve back.

The thought of facing him now, with this new and intimate knowledge between them, was unsettling in the extreme. Yet reason decreed that 'twould be better to face him sooner rather than later.

He stood beside his desk, contemplating a half full gla.s.s of brandy that sat on one corner near the edge. After a moment, he picked up the drink and tossed it back in a single swallow before moving to stand by the window. She thought he looked pensive, a touch forlorn. For her? Did he carry such melancholic burden because of what had pa.s.sed between them? Her heart lurched at the thought.

Drawing upon her reserves of composure, Emma bolstered her courage and knocked on the partially open door.

"Come in." Turning away from the window, Lord Anthony circled the desk.

"I am sorry to intrude, my lord. Mrs. Bolifer sent me with a message." Emma stood hesitantly in the doorway and forced herself to meet his gaze. Her nerves remained in shambles, her emotions yet to recover from the wild pa.s.sion that had overtaken her the previous afternoon.

His expression betrayed nothing, a cool expanse of absent emotion. How adept he was at masking his thoughts.

"Nicky is baking a cake," she said, then hesitated, wishing she could simply turn and run, knowing that she must face him, face her own yearning and wrest it into submission if she wished to remain at Manorbrier. "Mrs. Bolifer sent me."

"So you said." He glanced at the empty brandy gla.s.s in his hand, as if only now recollecting it, or perhaps hoping it would provide a means of escape. With deliberate care he set it on the desk, then returned his gaze to Emma.

Why, he is as ill at ease as I am, she thought in surprise.

"Did Mrs. Bolifer mention anything about Bosherton?" he asked.

"None dead. None sick. That is the message she sent." Pursing her lips, Emma frowned, confused as to the meaning of such cryptic communication as much as by the inaccuracy of it.

Lord Anthony nodded.

"But the message makes no sense. Meg told me that her mother has consumption. Surely she must count among the sick." Emma glanced away, unable to meet his eyes, her thoughts centered on the memory of Meg's pregnant belly, and the unanswered question of the father's ident.i.ty. She thought of Anthony's kisses, those lovely, heady kisses, and her heart twisted at the possibility that he had kissed Meg the very same way.

"Meg's mother is coughing her life away," he muttered.

She glanced back to find him staring at the floor, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, as though he could not bring himself to look at her.

Or as though he would succ.u.mb to wild and desperate pa.s.sion at the mere sight of her. Her cheeks heated, every thought drawn back to the very subject she so wished to avoid. Lord Anthony's kisses, the scent of him swirling around her, and the lovely stroke of his tongue, inside her, inside her mouth, the glide of his lips across hers.

Look at me, she thought. Turn your gaze upon me and warm me to the depths of my soul.

"Cookie says spirit of saffron will help," she blurted into the growing silence, her gaze fixed on his full lower lip, the dark shadow of his jaw, the strong column of his throat. She shook her head, desperate now to clear it of these tempting and wholly inappropriate thoughts.

"The woman needs something more than spirit of saffron if she's to last out the year, Emma." His tone was laced with genuine regret.

"Can you not help her?"

At her softly voiced question, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, and there she saw a bleak and sad despair. "No, I cannot. I attempted to ascertain the causal agent of her condition. But Meg's mother would have no part in it." He shook his head. "Like as not, she thought me a lunatic."

"No!" Emma exclaimed. "Surely she knew you would help...."

He shot her a sardonic glance. "The villagers think me cracked. The Mad Lord of Manorbrier, who locks himself in the tower with corpses, who rides to the village in the dark of night to take blood that flows no more from a body that will never move again. I pay them well, the mourners who circle like anxious hens, clucking and moaning while I do my strange work. Blood money ensures that none remain in the room while I practice my macabre arts."

She had surmised some small bit of this from the words Meg had spoken during their conversation in the scullery. Still, he painted a ghoulish scene, one that left her feeling horribly uncomfortable, as she was certain he had intended. He presented himself in a manner that could only be described as off-putting, as a fiend, a terrible beast with dark and mad intent.

"But why do you let them think that? Why do you encourage it?" She was appalled that he nurtured and fed such ludicrous suspicions. She could not understand why he did not defend himself. Suddenly, she recalled her own suspicions and fears, and his lack of explanation even to her. The realization hurt, even though she understood the source. He wanted to hold her far away, to cultivate and maintain a distance between them, his border of safety where she might not pa.s.s.

Was that her answer, then? Did he dare let no one near, using his odd behavior as a shield, the frightening stories as a buffer to hold any and all at bay.

To hold her at bay.

Lord Anthony took a step toward her. "They think me unbalanced, yet my coin buys their cooperation. More often than not, that coin is all that stands between an entire family and starvation. Desperation always proves to be an excellent motivator, and I am left to do as I will. Better that they are wary of me. I want no one to see me as a savior, no one to think that I might play the hero and s.n.a.t.c.h them from death's cold embrace."

"But..." Emma stumbled over her question, confusion tangling her tongue. Dropping her gaze, she studied the pattern in the carpet that covered the polished wood floor. She did not understand this man or his motivations.

He was unutterably attractive, t.i.tled, wealthy.

Damaged. Wounded.

She longed to take away his pain, but how to heal a wound she could not name?

A current stirred the air and she felt his presence beside her. Raising her head, she met his gaze, and suddenly, she understood him very well, for in his eyes she read desire. Blatant. Hot. Barely suppressed. Mirroring her own sharp and vivid longings.

"Emma," he rasped, running the pad of his thumb along her cheek, "so tempting, so innocently sensual in your response. You rubbed yourself against me like a kitten looking to be petted."

Mortified, she could not answer. There was no denial, no defense against the naked truth of his statement. His words embarra.s.sed her, even as they made her burn with agonized heat. She stood, frozen, reveling in the feel of his hand cupping her cheek, knowing she should pull away. No good could come of this mad infatuation.

"You are my son's governess, a woman in my employ, under my protection. What manner of man would take advantage of such a situation?"

The question made her think again of Meg, of her overlarge belly and practical disposition. She stared at him, trying to see into his soul. "Have you ever?"

He blinked, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. Then her meaning dawned, and he dropped his hand to his side.

"Have I ever taken advantage of my position?" He gave a strangled laugh. "Yesterday, I carried the broom and bucket of dirty water to the scullery like a common servant in order to avoid the temptation of remaining in the same room with you. The temptation to finish what I had started." His lips curved in a bemused smile. "I do not think I have been to the scullery in my entire life."