Gallant Waif by Anne Gracie (the alpha prince and his bride full story free .txt) 📗

were unbearably tender as his hands rubbed the material of her frock and chemise across them. Her body was racked with wave after wave of the most exquisite shudders, and she could not help but push herself against him. At the same time, his mouth, lips and tongue were creating the most amazing sensations, intensifying the feeling she had of needing to get closer to him, to feel him against, around, inside her.

She could taste the brandy he had been consuming, the tobacco he had smoked, but also, something indefinable, the maleness and uniqueness of Jack. She wanted to touch him, taste him, feel him. One of her hands embedded itself in his thick, crisp dark hair, while the other cupped his jaw, rubbing tenderly back and forth, revelling in the texture of his unshaven chin. His mouth moved away from hers for a moment and she whimpered softly in protest at the deprivation and followed it.

His body was pressing against hers, moving in a slow, rhythmical motion, male to female, holding, tasting, wanting. His arms moved around to her back, and Kate thrust forward into the circle of his body, rubbing her breasts against the hardness of his chest. She felt him withdraw from her in some indefinable way, then gradually became aware of a growing draught at her back.

Abruptly she realised that Jack was unfastening her dress, trying to slip it from her shoulders. She pulled back, uttering a small exclamation of surprise, and found herself clutching her dress to her and staring him wordlessly in the face.

“Jack…” she whispered, an unanswerable question in her eyes.

His gaze fixed on her face for a moment. He swore and thrust her away. Running a hand through his hair, he turned and headed for the table where he habitually kept the brandy. He pulled up short and swore again, recalling its recent fate. He dug his hands into his pockets and stared moodily into the fire. He kicked it once with his bad leg and sparks flew and danced like whirling dervishes up the chimney, while the pain brought him to his senses.

Kate hurriedly fastened up her dress as best she could, then waited for Jack to turn around. They stood there for long, silent minutes, Jack staring into the fire, his chest heaving, an unreadable look on his face, Kate, her face delicately flushed in the candlelight, wide-eyed and nervous.

Jack clenched his jaw. One tender word from him now and she would be in his arms again. And this time there would be no stopping him. He was poised on a knife-edge as it was. He’d never wanted any woman in his life as much as he wanted her.

But Kate was a lady, and if he touched her now they would be calling the banns next Sunday in church, and he couldn’t do that to her: tie her for life to a miserable wreck when, with his grandmother’s help, she could have almost anyone, and a life of ease and pleasure. No, he wasn’t much of a gentleman, but he had enough pride not to speak that tender word and snare her with her own kindness.

“Get out of here before I really do give you a beating,” he growled. “Lord, didn’t your father ever teach you not to throw yourself at a man like that? If I didn’t know you to be an innocent…” He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s provocation of the worst sort. Do you not understand? It is asking to be used like the lowest sort of woman!”

The colour slowly drained from Kate’s face. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come.

… asking to be used like the lowest sort of woman! He was accusing her of wantonness, she thought despairingly. Blaming her, like all the rest… Throwing herself at a man… If I didn’t know you to be an innocent… But he didn’t know her as well as he thought he did. And what would he think, once he did know her better? That she’d provoked Henri, too? That she’d asked to be a Frenchman’s whore?

She would die if Jack ever looked at her the way those men in Lisbon had.

She stared at him numbly. It was true. She had provoked him.

Provoked. . .the argument. Provoked his anger, that was all. But Jack had grabbed her first. And he had kissed her when she had no thought of it—well, not much. Oh, yes, she had kissed him back, but he had started it, kissing her in that devastating… And he had been the one who had begun to undo her dress! But, like the people in Lisbon, he held her responsible…

Well, if she was wanton, then so was he!

Suddenly anger bubbled up in her, anger not only for what Jack had said, but for what men had said about her in Portugal and Spain. Blaming her!

Hypocrites!

This time she would not tamely accept the blame for what a man had done to her. She would retrieve her position. And give him the response he deserved!

She stared up at him, her face a white mask. Unconsciously his hand reached out towards her and in a flash she slapped him hard across the face. He stood there stupidly, unmoving, and, in utter silence, she turned and exited, quietly closing the door behind her.

Jack stood staring at the door a long time. After a while his hand came up and rubbed his cheek bemusedly. It was no light slap. His little Kate packed a good wallop. He sat down again and gazed into the fire, his hand still covering the cheek she had slapped, although the sting had long since faded.

How had it got so far out of hand?

Bloody hell, one minute she was driving him crazy, provoking his retaliation—sweeping in like some small avenging angel to wrest his drink out of his hands. He’d been justifiably angry with her then as she danced from chair to chair, flinging insults and bowls of greenery at him—cheeky