Rapture in His Arms Read Online Free PDF Page A

who needed a man, and maybe the little prig would thank her in the end.
    ~ ~ ~
    As twilight descended that evening, Jillian found herself extremely sleepy. She even passed up supper. She hadn’t slept well after viewing the incident with Priscilla and her slave the previous night, and fatigue now overcame any reservations she might have had about appearing rude to Priscilla. Opening the French doors in her room to catch a cooling breeze, Jillian then lay down upon the bed.
    She breathed the salty sea air that mingled with the aroma of bougainvillea in the garden outside. The sweet scent and the gentle pounding of the nearby surf lulled her into sleep. Not even the large clock in the hallway, chiming every hour on the hour, wakened her. It wasn’t until eleven chimes resounded in the quiet house that Jillian even stirred in her sleep, but so deep into slumber was she that she didn’t hear the terrace doors opening further, and most certainly she wasn’t aware of the man who stood beside her bed, intently watching her.
    Jillian had no idea of the beguilingly beautiful picture she made as moonlight spilled over her, gilding her face like a silver mask, or how incredibly young she appeared with her long, chestnut braid flowing onto the pillow with tousled strands of hair framing her face. If she’d known how the man stood transfixed by her bed, his dark eyes slowly traversing the features of her face to move downward and linger upon her full breasts, primly covered by her white night rail but tempting nonetheless, she’d have been mortified. Her mortification would have known no bounds had she realized that this man’s hot gaze also traveled below her waist to where the sheet and night rail wantonly twisted around her perfectly formed thighs in serpentine fashion, exposing her lower body. She had no idea that her admirer swallowed hard, almost convulsively, seemingly at war with himself, before he gathered the courage to reach out a tentative hand and gently skim her velvety cheek with his callused fingers.
    Jillian moaned softly in her sleep, and Donovan caught his breath. His heart beat hard. Never had he felt skin so soft or seen a woman so beautiful. He recalled many of the well-bred women who had frequented the Mortimer estate over the years and been fascinated by Sir Horatio’s white slave. Donovan grinned to himself, for old Horatio would have suffered apoplexy if he’d know the number of times his female guests had invited his slave to their rooms. And Donovan had gone. Hell! Why shouldn’t he have pleasured himself with fancy English tarts who were more than willing to lie with a mere slave? But if Horatio Mortimer had known the number of times Donovan had frequented the beds of Horatio’s lady friends, and then Priscilla’s after Horatio married her, the old man would probably have personally castrated him.
    For all the women with whom he’d secretly lain, Donovan had had to work up the courage to come to this woman, this woman who slept the sleep of the innocent. Donovan peered closely at her; she looked incredibly young and inexperienced, but Donovan reminded himself that the woman wasn’t innocent; otherwise, he wouldn’t be in her room, ready to waken her and pleasure her with his hands, his lips, his body. Priscilla had surprised him when she told him that her guest, the very proper married lady from Virginia, wanted to bed him. Since Priscilla had taken up with him, he’d been only with her and no one else. Though many pretty women had seemed interested in him on their visits, Priscilla had jealously kept him for her own use. Now, she wanted him to pleasure this woman from Virginia. Why? Sharing anything was so unlike the greedy Priscilla.
    And yet, Donovan hadn’t refused her. As a slave, he couldn’t refuse to do any chore he was ordered to perform—he knew that—though, in fact, many times he didn’t do what old Mortimer or Phipps, the overseer, commanded him to do out of sheer orneriness.