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  She’d been unable to go back to sleep, but at least awake she had more control over the images, could prevent them from rushing headlong—

  Suddenly tentacles wound around her. Screaming, she bumped against a rock-hard wall, the heat of its warmth in direct contrast to the coolness of the water surrounding her.

  “Don’t fight me,” a deep, resonant voice commanded. “You’ll only drown.”

  Drowning might be a preferable outcome when compared against what his intentions might involve. Where had he come from? Was it Poseidon? And if so, was he as dangerous as she’d first surmised?

  Her heart pounded against her ribs, against the arm with which he’d secured her against his body. Her breath came in short pants, her limbs shaking, her skin tingling. She grew colder than she thought it possible to be while still living. Her mind was unexpectedly cluttered with fear and anger and dread.

  She’d scouted the area, thought she was alone, and now she was being hauled to shore by a stranger, a man, a strong man. She stopped fighting because she needed to conserve her strength, to make a concerted effort to escape as soon as her feet touched land.

  The water grew shallow and with a sudden ungainly lurch before her feet had an opportunity to touch land, she found herself nestled in his arms as he strode toward the boulders.

  “What sort of foolish woman are you?” he asked with a voice devoid of threat and more accurately reflecting true concern.

  Before she could respond, he’d set her on a rock, wrapped her blanket around her, and was briskly rubbing her quaking body. Surely his weren’t the actions of a man who intended harm.

  And then he became even more dangerous, because she saw him more clearly now, the drenched strands of his dark hair falling across his brow. It was Poseidon.

  He was still more shadow than light, the sun only just beginning to peer over the distant horizon. With a trembling hand, she touched his jaw. Bristly and rough. He’d not shaved recently.

  He stilled, and with his hands no longer working to dry her, she was more frightened than ever. Not of him, but of herself, of her need to trail her fingers over his face, along his shoulders, across his chest. To have the heat from his body sear her fingertips. To touch in life what she’d only ever touched in forbidden dreams.

  She could not explain what drew her to him. She only knew it was wrong, incredibly wrong, the musings of a wicked girl who could not escape her heritage.

  Then his mouth was on hers, hotter than she believed possible, shooting sparks through her entire body, sending bursts of fire through her limbs, curling her toes. She plowed her fingers through his hair until they became entangled in his thick strands. His kiss—decidedly carnal, absolutely feral in its intensity—terrified her as much as it drew her in.

  She’d never experienced anything like it in her entire life. With each bold sweep of his tongue, he enticed her into contemplating the merits of lying beneath him, of allowing his naked body to serve as her blanket, to feel his velvety flesh in place of the soft cotton.

  His guttural groan echoed between them, competed with the sounds of the surf, wind, and birds. His hands tightened their hold on her arms, and she instinctively knew it was not she whom he wished to hold in place, but himself, because her hands wanted to roam over his flesh, wanted to touch all of him—surely he wished to do the same with her.

  He broke free, his breathing harsh and rapid. She heard it from a great distance, as though she held seashells against her ears, the constant roar of the ocean replaced with the heavy echo of shuddering breaths.

  “Who are you?” he rasped.

  A woman on the verge of committing an unpardonable sin. Shaking her head vehemently, she drew the blanket more closely around herself and scooted back.

  Slowly he got to his feet, walked to where she’d tossed her dress earlier, and picked it up. She watched as he made his way back toward her. She snatched the dress from him, and when he turned his back to her, she worked the simple clothing over her head, shoulders, and body as quickly as possible. Once again, she brought the blanket around her, because she suddenly felt in need of more adequate protection.

  As though sensing her stillness, he turned and extended his hand. He wore no shirt, and she wondered if he’d discarded it before coming into the water. His wet trousers were tight, stretching across his thighs. His feet were bare, making it easier to walk over the rocks and sand, the intimacy of the discovery compounded by the fact that hers were as well.

  She knew she was courting disaster, enticing ruin, but she could not deny his invitation any more than she could prevent her lungs from drawing in air. With a deep, shuddering sigh, she placed her hand in his, welcoming the slow curl of his long fingers over hers.

  He pulled her up and led her to a spot where they were hidden from everything except the vast expanse of the sea that lay before them and the majesty of the rising sun glinting off the water. With her gaze on the horizon, she allowed her hand to remain in his, nestled between their bodies as though it belonged there, although she knew undoubtedly that it did not.

  She sensed his watching her, and it was all she could do not to look at him, not to risk being ensnared by his gaze. He was dark and forbidden—which made him enticingly alluring.

  “Why did you return here today?” he asked quietly.

  Without the huskiness in his voice that had followed their kiss, he sounded cultured, refined. Nobility maybe. Or a servant in a wealthy household. No, she could not envision her sea king as answering to anyone other than himself. A businessman, perhaps. Like her father. An educated man. A man of wealth who had time for the leisurely pursuits of vacationing at the seaside.

  Turning her head, she held his gaze and answered truthfully. “I don’t know.”

  In the last remnants of dawn’s shadows, she saw a corner of his mouth curl up.

  “You’re American,” he stated, as though the notion had been inconceivable to him only moments before and was now somehow humorous.

  Or perhaps he was simply confounded by the fact that they’d shared a searing kiss, and yet he knew none of the little details of her life—or even the important aspects for that matter.

  “Texas,” she offered softly with fond memories.

  “I might have guessed. I detect a slight drawl.”

  A drawl which the finest tutors, abundant traveling, and her vigilant practicing had managed to all but erase. The woman who’d given birth to her was the daughter of a saloon keeper. She spoke with a voice that mimicked that of many cowboys: smoky and drawn-out, the endings of words cut off as though the slow pattern of her speech forced her to make up for it somehow. Her manner of talking had stood her in good stead when dealing with drunken cowboys or when she’d boldly trailed cattle north. But as in all things, Kitty wanted to be associated with the woman who had raised her, not the one who had borne her.

  Madeline Robertson was genteel in nature and in actions. She always spoke and acted as a lady should, and Kitty strived to attain her perfection.

  Only now she more closely resembled a hoyden, not a woman who had spent countless hours with a book balanced on top of her head while walking, sitting, rising, bending, and bowing. She’d curtsied before royalty, waltzed with a prince. Twice a year she visited Paris so Charles Worth could design her latest wardrobe, each piece always an exquisite work of art designed exclusively for her delicate frame, which he’d called a work of art in itself. He would be appalled to see the dress that hung on her damp body, a servant’s castoff that Kitty had hoarded away and wore on occasions when she needed to escape from the demands of being a wealthy American’s daughter.

  “I thought you were drowning,” he said. “I was coming to your rescue.”

  How ironic. In the water, she’d not needed rescuing, and now she did. She felt as though she were wading into uncharted oceans, that at any moment she’d have to acknowledge that she was out of her depth, in danger of drowning.

  “I’m a strong swimmer,” she said inanely. “I�
��ve swum the world over.”

  “Indeed. Where exactly?”

  She angled her head. “Wherever I wanted.”

  “Alone and undetected?”

  She smiled slightly. “Until today.”

  “Then I am grateful for today.”

  Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to each of her knuckles, although kiss was too tame a word for his exploration. His lips enveloped, while his tongue stroked and tasted, sending dizzying sensations swirling through her. His gaze was as hot as his mouth.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, surprised by how breathless she sounded.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  Shaking her head, she averted her eyes, focusing on the horizon, stunned to see how much of the night the sun had pushed back.

  Gently he angled her hand until her wrist was exposed, and he continued his subtle seduction. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she imagined him taking this leisurely journey along the length of her entire body. Was this how the woman who had given birth to her had been lured into a scoundrel’s arms: slowly, tenderly, with only a hint of passion revealed?

  She drew her hand free of his hold and folded it up against her body, beneath her tingling breasts. He stirred to life sensations she’d never before felt.

  Odd. When she’d danced with dozens of men, spoken with them, flirted with them, batted her eyelashes, and smiled becomingly. She’d done none of that with him, and yet there she was, drawn to him as the tide was drawn to the shore.

  As he tucked strands of her hair behind her ear, a shiver shimmied through her, and she turned her attention back to him, realizing too late that he was closer than he’d been before, closer and more dangerous.

  The sun had worked its magic, revealing him as one might an expensive gift, slowly, savoring the discovery. His eyes were darker than his hair, almost black, and she thought their shade had little to do with the remaining shadows. His lashes were long, spiked. On closer inspection, she saw tiny lines within his face, lines that marked him as a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors. She thought it unlikely he was an aristocrat. He was a laborer of some sort then. A fisherman perhaps. A sea captain. A man who was accustomed to taking women into his berth, then leaving them ashore.

  That would explain his unanticipated kiss. As for her response—it rose from the uncivilized part of her that she fought daily to control. With him she was in danger of losing the battle.

  And she cared not—which frightened her more. To have no regard for where this moment might lead was blatant folly, recklessness.

  He touched his lips to hers, a tentative exploration this time, like a butterfly testing the welcome of a budding flower. Yet there was nothing fragile or dainty about him or the desire she recognized smoldering within his eyes. He threaded his fingers through her hair, bracketing his palms on either side of her face, and pressed his luscious mouth against hers.

  With his tongue, he stroked the outer edges of her lips, the seam that separated them, coaxing her mouth to open, bidding her to allow entry. Then he was exploring more deeply, more intimately, slowly, leisurely, as though the sun would cease to rise farther, as though the day would not give way to the night.

  She knew nothing about him except that she shouldn’t be there with him. She’d worked her entire life to be good, to be above reproach, to be the perfect lady, and here she was casting it all aside because of a man who drew her to him with little more than his existence.

  She returned his kiss, anxious to know the feel of his lips, the varying textures of his mouth, her tongue darting again and again, frightened by her boldness, disappointed in her cowardice.

  With his deep, feral groan, the nature of the kiss changed: It deepened, demanding that doubts be cast aside, and that desire triumph. She lost herself in the searing kiss that seemed to encompass more than simply her mouth. It was as though her entire body participated, savoring each thrust of his tongue, feeling a tension build that cried out for release.

  Her body felt as though it needed to be anchored to something, to him. Her hands were grappling, striving to find something substantial with which she could secure herself, while his hands stroked her back, her shoulders, her sides, her rounded backside.

  She broke free of the kiss, suddenly realizing that she was straddling him like a wanton woman, her nerve endings humming, her skin sensitive to each whisper of the wind. Her breaths coming in short panting gasps, she was intensely aware of the hardness of his body, of the press of his hips against the hollow of hers.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered. She scrambled off him, ashamed and mortified. How close she’d come to devouring him, how close she’d come to giving in to the carnal creature living inside her.

  She huddled away from him, her shoulders hunched, her chest aching, fighting for control. She heard his harsh breathing echoing around her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked away. “Don’t. Please.”

  “There is something between us,” he said quietly, his voice a deep and resonating timbre that touched the chords deep within her heart.

  She shook her head forcefully. “There can be nothing between us.”

  “At least tell me your name.”

  Even as she rose to her feet to escape him, she heard her answer wafting on the breeze. “Kitty.”

  “Where can I find you?”

  “You can’t. I’m leaving for London today, for the Season.”

  “I’ll go to London then. I want to see you.”

  She looked back at him, to memorize quickly the sight of him on the rocks, to sever the bond between them that should have never existed. “You can’t see me. I’m soon to be married.”

  Then she scrambled over the rocks, tears blurring her vision. She did not want to be with this man who called out to the wildness in her. She wanted Nicky. Safe, dependable Nicky.

  Her haven from the storm of desire and lust. With him, she would be happy. With him, she could be the lady she’d worked so diligently to become.

  Richard swam until the sun had cleared the horizon, until he saw its blinding rays glinting off the water—long, strong, sure strokes that carried him out to sea and returned him to shore. Again and again until his limbs grew heavy, until he collapsed on the ribbon of sand where she’d stood.

  He was breathing as quickly and as heavily as he’d been while kissing her. Had he ever tasted anyone as sweet? He thought not. If he had, he had no memory of her or her taste.

  His lady of the sea had erased all others from his mind, until she alone remained, taunting him with what she’d given him, teasing him with what she’d withheld.

  With his cheek pressed against the sand, he reached out a tired arm and touched the edge of one of the footprints she’d left behind, evidence that she was indeed flesh and not mere fantasy.

  I’m soon to be married.

  The words seemed to be carried on the wind. He circled the outline of her footprint. He wanted her. He was not a man who denied himself the things he wanted.

  He would have her. One way or another. He would go to London. He would find her. And he would do whatever it took to possess her.

  Chapter 3

  Gazing through her bedroom window into the splendid garden of the London town house her parents had begun leasing four years earlier, Kitty tried to find comfort in the familiarity, sought to place herself back on an even keel. It had been three days since they’d arrived in London. Her gentleman by the sea should have become a distant memory, seldom thought about. Instead he haunted her every waking moment, frequented her nightly dreams.

  She didn’t know how to purge her memories of him, and yet she knew she must. He wasn’t safe. He made her feel things she didn’t want to feel, caused her to experience sensations forbidden to a decent woman.

  Kitty was certain that only lust had driven her actions by the sea. Hers and his. Entwining themselves around each other without conceivable thought, they’d imitated animals on the verge of mating, with
their actions based on instinct, not true love or affection. Nearly bared bodies unable to resist temptation.

  Their deplorable display of impropriety was the very reason people in a civilized society wore as much clothing as they did—to provide a shield against the body’s instinctual inclination to mate. Inherently disgusting behavior when not controlled. Thank goodness, she’d never again see her gentleman from the sea.

  “Are you afraid to get married, Kitty?”

  Turning away from the window, Kitty smiled softly at her ten-year-old sister, who was stretched on her stomach on the bed, raised on her elbows, her latest book spread out before her. She was a voracious reader. “No, of course not. Why ever would you think that?”

  Emily furrowed her dark brow. “Because you look so worried.”

  “I’m not worried. I have no patience when it comes to waiting. It’s worsened by the fact that I haven’t seen Lord Farthingham in weeks.”

  “When do you think you’ll get married?” Emily asked.

  “I’m not sure. Lord Farthingham and Papa are still working out the settlement. Until the lawyers and Papa are happy with everything, we won’t make an official announcement. Then I want to wait an entire year before we actually get married.” She intended to have a leisurely betrothal, to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was chaste. She wanted no scandal associated with herself or her marriage.

  “I wish Nicky would hurry up and get here,” Emily lamented.

  Pursing her lips, Kitty gave Emily a hard stare. Emily simply rolled her eyes and her shoulders. “I know, I know. I’m supposed to call him Lord Farthingham.” She giggled. “But he’s so much fun. He seems more like a Nicky than a Lord Farthingham.”

  Kitty laughed. “Yes, he is fun, isn’t he?”

  “Why didn’t he meet us in Cornwall?”

  “Because he had business he needed to attend to in London. A lot of responsibility comes with his title. Some people don’t realize that.”