Spellbound and Seduced. Marguerite Kaye

dip of her spine to her bottom. It was a very nice bottom, Lawrence thought appreciatively. Her gown stopped just above her ankles. As she leaned out of the window, her petticoats rode up, giving him a delightful glimpse of her pretty calves, the backs of her knees. She wore neither shoes nor stockings. She had lovely toes. He had never seen such lovely toes. He should not even be noticing her toes, with his head aching and his clothes sopping.

      The long rippling fall of her tawny hair fluttered over her beautifully rounded rump. Were she naked, it would caress her breasts, silken threads, giving him tantalising glimpses of her nipples. Would they be pink, like her mouth, or darker? And would the curls which covered her sex be the same tawny colour of her hair, or darker? Darker, he decided. And her nipples would be darker pink too.

      Jura pulled closed the window and turned around, catching him unawares. Embarrassed to discover that his musings had made him hard, Lawrence crossed his legs. For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with him! His libido was not usually so rampant. In fact, given the circumstances, he couldn’t understand why it was even present. The silver cat wound itself around his booted ankle. ‘Bry-an-ack,’ he said, struggling with the soft Gaelic syllables. Dammit, the cat was a sinuous as her mistress.

      ‘Bree-an-ach,’ Jura corrected him, stooping to pat the creature, affording Lawrence a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. “Do you want me to help you take off your boots?”

      His boots, his breeches, and whatever else she chose to remove! Lawrence shook his head. “I can manage.”

      Jura nodded. “Mind you do now, else you’ll likely catch a fever. I’ll be back in a moment.”

      The door closed behind her. Lawrence stared into the flames of the fire. Back home, he would have been in the midst of preparations for tonight’s ball. His mother would find time, in between driving the servants mad with unnecessary reminders and completing her lengthy toilette, to lecture him on the merits and demerits of each eligible partie. He grinned. His temple throbbed. His feet were soaking. Hoby’s boots were obviously not designed for Scottish snow. His coat, too—the superfine was wet through at the shoulders to his shirt. Still, he wouldn’t swap places even if he could, because cold and tired and lost as he was, he was also thoroughly intrigued and no little aroused by his barefoot and unaccountably unattached hostess. Lawrence took off his boots.

      In the wooden lean-to that was her still room at the back of the cottage, Jura collected together leaves, seeds, roots, and essential oils. Lifting her mortar and pestle from the shelf, she set about pounding a balm for the bruising, a tisane for the headache.

      She had never seen such extraordinarily blue eyes as Lawrence Connaught had. If she could have cast a spell to conjure a lover, she’d have wished for eyes exactly like those. She’d have wished for hair to curl over her lover’s collar as Lawrence’s did, for his mouth to curve delicately under just such a straight nose. Her spell would have given her lover just that aura of sensuality, the same heady mix of potency and confidence which would make her feel both vulnerable and desirable.

      She was not accustomed to feeling either. Her powers made her inviolable. It was her choice, her magic which ensured she would never know the happiness of true love. A bleak enough future for sure, but knowing it would also be without tragedy, without the sorrow and anguish she had seen her mother suffer, had always helped comfort her lonely hours. Though tonight…

      Tonight, fate had brought her Lawrence Connaught. Tonight, for the first time, she knew the lure of temptation. She could never have love, but that did not mean she had always to be alone. Yearning, until now quite undefined, sharpened and focused. Longing, wanting to taste just a little of what was forbidden, now that it had shape—such a very attractive shape—was so much harder to resist. What harm could it do to open the door to that forbidden chamber just a little? To take just a step into the sensual, glittering world of desire? A moment out of time to warm her in the cold nights to come.

      Jura tipped the crushed leaves for the tisane from the mortar into a linen sachet. She didn’t mean it, of course. She was merely indulging her imagination. No harm in that. She picked up the jar of balm. The knot in her stomach tightened. She didn’t mean it, but what harm if she did?

      Chapter Two

      Night had taken hold as Jura lifted the latch on the cottage door, a dark, lowering night heavy with snow clouds which quite obscured the stars. Lawrence was sprawled in the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, calves and feet bare. His coat hung from the back of the settle. His waistcoat too. His boots stood on the hearth, his stockings draped over them. He had loosened his neckcloth. A thick lock of black hair fell over his brow. He was sleeping.

      Pouring water from the kettle into a bowl, Jura took a cloth and set about cleaning the cut on his brow. His face, his hands, his throat were lightly tanned. Pushing back his hair, she could not resist tangling her fingers in its natural curl. He opened his eyes. The blue of rosemary flowers. Captivating blue. ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

      What he felt, Lawrence thought, was quite overwhelmed by her nearness. Jura exuded femininity, as if imbued by everything he most loved of women. ‘My ministering angel,’ he said.

      She laughed softly. ‘Ministering yes, but I doubt if you knew me you’d call me an angel.’ She could see just enough of the bare skin at his throat to make her want to see more. In the soft glow of the firelight, with the door bolted against the night, she could imagine they were alone in the world. Lawrence’s chest rose and fell. Yearning so acute it was painful assailed her, making her lean closer to him just for the simple pleasure of feeling another’s skin near hers, for the simple pleasure of being close enough to have his breath whisper over her.

      ‘If not an angel, then you must surely be an enchantress,’ Lawrence said, trying to unravel the scent of her. An undertone of lemony herbs overlaid with spice, the whole resonant of an exotic perfume, it made him dizzy with desire. ‘You are certainly quite enchanting.’