Scandal in the Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

enveloped in the heat and scent of him. The heat, radiating out of him in leaping bonfires, was familiar, though the scent, a uniquely English combination of horse, leather, and privilege, was entirely foreign, and she realized she had been seeking it out—nosing along the slide of his neck below his ear, tasting his skin with little openmouthed kisses—seeking the faint hint of the patchouli that had once perfumed his long, long, beautiful dark hair.
    A low growl of appreciation and encouragement wound out of his chest and she lost herself to him. Every pulse in her body beat with him. Every breath was mingled with his. She was weightless, floating higher and higher on the rising tide of her need.
    They were no longer tentative. They had nothing left of what he had called English caution. They kissed with the knowledge that they were hidden from anyone else’s eyes and that they wanted this joining—had longed for this fervent press of flesh and pleasure. Indeed, her hands were wrapped around his strong wrists and she was all but pulling him closer, holding him near so she could lose herself in the awful, dangerous pleasure. In the promise of his passion.
    The rough texture of his skin, shaved free of his beard, but with the beginning of whiskers, rasped against hers as he arched her head back to kiss down the curve of her throat. His teeth slid down her neck to worry and nip at the hollow at the base of her throat.
    “God, yes, Cat. My Cat.”
    Her eyes fell shut, and she was nodding in agreement, and waiting for more of the bliss that spread under her skin like honey, hearing nothing but the roaring of her pulse in her ears and the harsh cadence of his breath above her. Her breath was just as unruly. She was all but panting for him. Wanting him. Needing nothing but the feel of his hands on her body and his lips against hers.
    “Let me touch you,” he rasped. “Let me have you.”
    His fingers were plucking at the lacing of her gray gown, and a feeling of such abiding sweetness and relief blossomed within her, she felt almost faint. “Tanvir,” she whispered.
    “Yes, my kaur, yes. I’ve found you. I’ve got you.”
    She opened her eyes to see him, to find the promise of his dark green eyes. But he was not Tanvir Singh. He was not her lover. He was an Englishman named Thomas. A man who had shared his body, but never his truth.
    She was not his kaur, because he was no longer her Tanvir. And even if he were, all Tanvir Singh had apparently ever wanted from her was what she was currently so foolishly giving him.
    The realization stopped her cold.
    She brought her elbows between them and levered herself away. “Oh, God. What am I doing? I don’t know you.”
    He let her go, and blew out a low gust of frustrated laughter, though his breath was sawing in and out of his chest as if he had run a race. And his eyes, those laughing, mocking eyes, regarded her steadily through a fall of dark hair, like a jackal staring down a hare.
    “You don’t know me? Well, let me enlighten you, kaur. I’m the man you once fucked as ruthlessly as any courtesan.”
    Catriona flinched. She should have known some accusation, heavy as a blow, was coming. She should have been prepared. She should have understood that despite his kisses, he thought the very worst of her.
    Fine. If he had not forgiven her mistakes, she would not forgive his deceit. “Don’t call me that. I am not your princess, nor was I ever. You left me. You left me there to die. Or had you forgotten?” She shoved at his chest. “Get away from me. Don’t touch me.”
    This time, it was his head that reeled back as if she had hit him. The tight set of his jaw told her the truth of her accusation had found its mark.
    “Perhaps,” he said when he had recovered, “I should have just let whoever the bastard is who wants to kill you put a bullet between your eyes. Then you wouldn’t give a damn who touched you. Because you’d already be dead.” He leaned forward,