Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire
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over her shoulder, turned and strode away.
Bart dropped his hands to his sides and stood speechless for a moment, watching as she stepped onto the garden path. Her back was straight, and she held her head high, though he could see that her poise was hard-won. She was not nearly as confident as she would have him believe, and her boldness intrigued him.
He went after her.
Quickly catching up, he took hold of her arm again and whirled her around. Her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, and her eyes were dark with anger. Her cheeks were now flushed with color, and her mouth parted in surprise. Without thinking, Bartholomew lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Marguerite was shocked by the heat of his mouth and the sound of need that emerged from deep within him. She was suddenly awash with her own needs, her own cravings. She was drowning again.
The kiss was no light brushing of lips, but a meeting of flesh that quickly intensified as her body melted into his. His heat enveloped her, his scent tantalized her. His mouth was warm, but softer than she ever would have imagined, knowing how hard and unyielding he was.
An exquisite ache formed in Marguerite’s lower body, and it seemed the only way to soothe it was to press even closer to him. When she moved to do so, he suddenly broke away.
Still dazed, Marguerite did not resist when Bartholomew took hold of her hand and pulled her alongside him, farther into the garden.
’Twas late enough in the season that the trees were mostly bare of their leaves. All of the flowers had ceased to bloom, leaving withered stalks and tangled, brown underbrush along the path. The garden was colorless and bleak, but Marguerite noticed naught but the pounding of her heart and the heat of Bartholomew’s hard, callused hand around her own.
When they were deep in the garden, Bart stopped next to a massive oak tree at the edge of the path. The only color in his face was the slight flush in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked altogether too formidable, and when he let go of her hand, Marguerite took a step backward, causing a collision between her backside and the tree.
He followed.
Without speaking, he pressed his hands against the trunk on either side of Marguerite’s head. Fire was in his eyes, and determination in the set of his head. He studied her face, gazing at her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then at her mouth.
Marguerite trembled under his scrutiny, unafraid of him, but distinctly alarmed by her own attraction to him.
Without warning, he took her mouth again.
With both fists, she grabbed the damp linen at his chest and pulled him to her, taking possession of his lips, his teeth, his tongue. Shivering, she felt his hands drop to her shoulders, then down her back and lower, dragging her body into closer contact with his.
Marguerite let go of his tunic and slid her hands up the hard muscles of his chest, even as he overwhelmed her senses with his mouth, his touch, his very size. He tasted male, if that was possible, and so very potent he made her dizzy.
Every nerve in her body hummed. Her blood boiled and her bones seemed to melt under his sensual onslaught. Her lack of memory made no difference now, when the present was all that mattered.
He jerked abruptly away from her. “I must be mad,” he said. He encircled her wrists with his hands, imprisoning them against his chest even as he stepped back.
Marguerite swallowed and gazed blankly at his chest as she worked to compose herself. He was not the only one suffering a kind of madness. She had allowed herself to succumb to her attraction for Bartholomew, in spite of her anger, in spite of her uncertainty of who and what she was.
She let out a shuddering breath and looked up.
His dark eyes still smoldered with heat, and his jaw was clenched tight. His breathing was not as steady as usual.
Her own certainly was not. Nor did her heart maintain its normal rhythm. Every inch of her skin felt as if it were on fire, and the tips of her breasts tingled uncomfortably. She swayed toward him, unwilling to end their ardent encounter.
After but a moment’s hesitation, Bartholomew swept her up in his arms and carried her farther into the garden. He did not stop until they’d reached a small, wooden hut, hidden behind a thick row of evergreens. He shoved the door open with one foot and carried her inside.
There were no windows, so the only light inside emanated from the open door. Marguerite eased her arms from around Bartholomew’s neck and slid down the length of his body to the floor. He cupped her face and kissed her once, quickly but deeply, then turned away, leaving her shaken and with a growing sense of uncertainty.
Marguerite was hardly aware of his actions as he lit a lamp and closed the door. Being alone with Bartholomew in this isolated shed at the far end of the garden was as daunting as it was exciting. And Marguerite knew she could not stay.
Bartholomew did not trust her, nor did he believe her claim of memory loss. She would never allow such intimacy while he held such a low opinion of her.
She clasped her hands before her and cleared her throat. “M-my lord,” she began. “I…” She bit her lip and watched him as he came back to her.
“Do not think, Marguerite,” he said, nuzzling her ear. He moved his lips to her throat. “Just feel….”
She swallowed, and felt all too much. Her body was overcome with the sensations he was able to elicit with barely a touch, and she felt herself falling all over again.
“My lord,” she breathed. “I cannot…This is unseemly….”
“I want you.” He pulled the shawl away from her shoulders and let it drop.
“I…I—”
His hands slipped down to cup her breasts, and Marguerite felt the tips hardening in response. The only thing that could possibly feel more glorious would be his hands on her naked flesh.
“You want me, too.”
She swallowed hard. “Wh-what if I have a husband, my lord?” she asked tremulously. “Or a betrothed?”
The seductive touches at her throat and breasts stopped abruptly, and Bartholomew drew himself up to his full height, sliding his hands up to her shoulders. “Have you?”
Marguerite blushed. She shook her head. “I do not know,” she whispered. “I don’t believe anyone has ever t-touched me this way, but I cannot be sure.”
“It changes naught,” he said roughly. “How can you cuckold a husband or lover if you cannot remember him?”
“I do not know, my lord,” Marguerite retorted as she worked to compose herself, “b-but I would not betray a husband if indeed he exists.”
“But you…” Bartholomew turned away, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration. She heard him mutter something under his breath, but could not make out the words. He walked toward the door, then stood facing it as he plowed his fingers through his hair.
“I am sorry, my lord, if—”
“I want you in my bed,” he said, turning to her again. His hair was more disheveled now, and his eyes were dark, dangerous to her peace of mind. “I want you naked, willing. Come to me when you’ve decided what you want.”
Chapter Five
“Bartie!” Eleanor cried when she met Bartholomew on the garden path.
“What is it, Eleanor?” he growled. His young sister had managed to take him off guard, and that was highly unusual.
“Are you angry?”
“Nay,” he said, more harshly than he intended.
“But you look—”
“What is it?”
“I