Page 44 of The Captain Claims His Temptress

Maddie stifled her whimper with her fist. Meanwhile, she clutched the letter in her other hand to keep it from rustling. If Stephen looked toward the window, he would see her slippers sticking out from beneath the damask, and if he opened the draperies, he would find her gawking like an imbecile. Heavens above, if he saw her eyeball through the slit, not knowing who she was, he might stab and blind her.

She leaned against the window and listened to his footsteps travel to the other side of the room. Curiosity got the better of her, so she peeked through the panels again.

Stephen leaned over the washbasin. He dipped his hands into the water, bristled, then tensed.

Certain that he had heard her, she closed her eyes, tried to make herself as small as possible, and listened for his approaching footsteps. Instead, he whistled.

Her darned curiosity. She opened her eyes and gawked.

Stephen released the last button on his shirt, exposing the chiseled torso of a Greek god. White muslin fluttered to the floor.

Instead of the ghostly pallor of most British men of his station, his freckled skin was bronzed, which could only mean one thing. He sometimes forwent a shirt when outside.

She was no better than a Jezebel because liquid dripped between her thighs.

He again bent over the washstand. Why in heavens did the sound of water splashing dampen her female folds further? He dried his face, sat on the edge of his bed, then removed his boots.

If he took off his trousers, she might catch fire.

Yes! Please! Let him disrobe and let her burn. Seeing him naked would be worth the deadly inferno—especially if his male parts were as virile as the rest of him. The outline of the bulge in his trousers indicated he was massive. Now, not only were her unmentionables soaked, but she salivated. Depraved—that’s what she was. Depraved and wanton.

Stephen sauntered in her direction. She expected him to fling the drapery wide. Instead, he dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged in front of the window. He folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. He remained motionless for a long time, almost as if he were sleeping sitting up.

Heavens, he was masculine perfection. A rugged jawline. High cheekbones. A perfectly sculpted nose. Neatly trimmed golden-red hair covered his athletic-looking torso. His muscular thighs threatened to tear his tight trousers. And that bulge….Dear Lord, it was growing.

Without warning, his eyes popped open, he leaped from the ground, and growled.

His actions were so unexpected that Maddie squealed loud enough for him to hear her.

His gaze fixed on the far wall as he paced. Back and forth, he stomped, passing by her a half dozen times with nary a glance.

Realization dawned and she winced. He knew she was there and had been playing with her the entire time. Whistling. Disrobing in front of her. Engaging in quiet contemplation. And now stalking past her as she cowered like a terrified child. And what the dickens for? To mortify her and make her feel foolish? To make her want him more than she already did? If those were his chief inducements, they had worked. Her body quivered with need and her cheeks burned from humiliation.

His footsteps halted in front of her. She braced herself for the unveiling and scolding.

At the same time that the curtain was ripped away, he pressed his forearm below her neck, holding her in place. His lips brushed her ear, and his heated anger blew across her cheek.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Madalene?” He ripped the letter from her grasp, leaving a torn corner clutched between her fingers.

“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered.

His glare traveled from her face to the piece of paper in his hand and he snorted. “This”—he waved it in her face then tossed it over his shoulder—“was a letter to my twin sister.” The kind and gentle Stephen Eaton had been replaced by a man possessed by fury.

She knew exactly what it was, and like most things she read, the words were burned in her memory. She swallowed. “I found it on the floor. All of your correspondence were on the floor. I picked them up for you.” She inclined her chin toward his desk.

His nostrils flared as he pressed her against the window. Instead of inducing fear, his proximity sent a jolt of pleasure through her.

“Did you enjoy watching me?” he asked.

The heat of aching need mingled with her slithering shame. “Yes,” she whispered. Her quiet answer was not forceful enough. She met his gaze. “Yes!”

His breath hitched as the violence overshadowing his countenance was replaced with heavy-lidded desire. “Madalene, what do you want from me?”

“This.” She dropped the sliver of paper and boldly combed her fingers through his luscious chest hair.

Stephen hissed and pulled back as if her touch scorched his skin. “You are playing a dangerous game, Madalene Spencer. I am a man, not a saint.”

“Be a saint with everyone else and a sinner with me,” she said.