Dukes By the Dozen

He’d come up behind her, tall and half-naked as she’d commanded—and just there. His lips were close, and the thought of pressing her mouth to his filled her with need. She wanted to brush her fingers over the broad expanse of his chest and the blond hair sprinkled there.

“I thought it might be heavy.” Wulf’s voice was rough, his eyes dark with desire as he carefully removed the kettle from her hands.

He felt it as well, then, this tug between them.

“Perhaps it is the hit to my head that makes me take leave of my senses, but I believe this evening will be very—” he paused, pinning her with those deep blue eyes. “Engaging.”

“Oh, do you?” Bea knew precisely what Wulf was thinking just then, and sent him a slow, knowing smile. “Clearly, you are not in your right mind.”

“Oh, yes. I am in my right mind,” he said softly.

His gaze was so hot, so dark, it set her body alight.

Dangerous, indeed.

“If you would bring the pot?” She moved around him, striding toward the fire and the chair. Giving herself to the Duke of Highrow would be foolish. She would risk too much, in too many ways.

Yet Wulf would make any woman cross the line.

CHAPTER 5

“I’VE no convenient petticoat to bind your arm with.” Bea stared into the melting water. Little remained of the snow now, just a few swirls of white. Testing the surface with a fingertip, she judged it warm, but not hot.

She had begun to breathe properly again as she tended the water. Still, her body was tight, her mood edgy. Bea did not want to be cautious, but pleasure must always be approached with attention.

“We might as well use my shirt as a bandage,” Wulf suggested. “’Tis a loss in any case.”

The sound of rending fabric rose into the air as she removed the iron pot. She swirled the kettle once to even the water temperature, then turned to see him tearing strips from the bottom edge of his lawn shirt. He ripped again, firelight burnishing the shifting muscles in his shoulders.

She was no stranger to the male body, but Wulf’s body was more. Masculine and virile and strong. And so very tempting.

Caution, she reminded herself.

Settling once more into the crude chair, he laid the strips of his ruined shirt over his thigh. White against the deep black. She strode forward, trying not to slosh the warmed water—but thinking of where that trail of blond hair led.

The one that disappeared beneath the waist of his breeches.

HER CINNAMON SCENT filled the air around Wulf again as his highwayman drew close. She set the water on the floor, then quickly unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it. Clad in shirtsleeves and a plain waistcoat, she leaned forward to study his wound.

The pain had dulled now—shoulder, head—giving way to an intense craving for her. One that balanced on the keen edge of pleasure and torment.

Competent fingers brushed against his thigh as she retrieved one of the clothe strips he’d laid there. Wulf went hard, fought not to touch her. To accept the gentle ministrations as she dipped the fabric in the water and carefully sponged away the blood.

She narrowed her eyes as she worked, leaned closer. He carefully studied each feature of her face, memorizing its contours. A strong nose, eyes he could see now were hazel, and a narrow, pointed chin. A lush, full mouth.

The dandies in London might not call her a diamond of the first water, but there was something arresting about her face, her confident manner.

“You are very beautiful,” he murmured.

She stilled, frozen as she bent to reach for the pot of water again.

“No one has ever called me that before.” Moving slowly, she dunked the cloth, then looked directly at him as she straightened. That level, honest stare was almost difficult to meet. “Someone said I was a handsome woman once, but no one has ever used the word beautiful.”

“You are beautiful. It is true.” So true, just the look of her dried his throat. Her face was fiercely lovely, full of feminine strength. Everything about those features might have come from an ancient goddess.

“Well. You are the first to think so.” She breathed deep, let it out again, and continued her task. “If you intend to flatter me into becoming your lover, it will not work.”

“I see.” Amused at both of them, he studied her fingers as she worked. Long, quick, elegant. “Thank you for being straightforward about that.”

“I am a highwayman, and I take my pleasure where and how I want, but I am careful.” She slid him a mischievous glance, long lashes flashing over eyes not quite green, not quite brown, but a mixture of both. “And you are wounded.”

“Hardly,” he snorted.

“I must admit, I did a poor job shooting you.” She probed the area gently, pursed her lips. “It is not even worth stitching, truth be told. Salve over the next few days and clean wrappings should do it.”

“To be felled so low over so small a wound,” Wulf quipped, and had the pleasure of seeing her lips turn up with humor.

“But felled by the Honest Highwayman, so that must be some comfort,” she added.