Let Me Be The One by Jo Goodman Page B

Penrose did not. When she saw that Northam was gaining ground and nothing short of riding astride or testing Becket's limits would save her, Elizabeth eased up and allowed herself to be overtaken.
    It was perhaps good that he came upon her out of sight of the parapet for the designs he had on her person did not invite an audience. Still flushed of face and smiling, Elizabeth held out one hand to ward off Northam's final advance. She had no defense against the decidedly wicked gleam in his eye.
    "Never say you mean to do me harm," she said a shade breathlessly.
    "You misread me, Lady Elizabeth, and do me a grave injustice." At Northam's direction his mare pranced closer to Becket. The animals snorted and tossed their heads, eyeing each other first, then preening.
    Elizabeth glanced at Becket, sensing betrayal in his attention to the mare. It was in that moment's distraction that she finally lost her seat.
    Northam lifted Elizabeth from her saddle with very little effort and brought her to sit down in front him. There was a tiny rush of air escaping her lips that could have been protest or simply an indication of her discomfort, perched as she was half on and half off his saddle.
    "You are not struggling." Her face was close to his. There was a fine pink hue rising like cream to the surface of her skin. "You are either very well mannered or unafraid."
    "I am both."
    Though no challenge had been issued, that statement, cool in its delivery and confident of its truth, raised a rogue's patient smile. He had only intended to take her hat, perhaps make her beg prettily to have it returned without a crease or a bruise. He might have kept the sheer black scarf as a souvenir no matter how she pleaded for it, just to remind her that he had had the upper hand in the end.
    But her mouth was parted. The full lips were flushed a deep rose. There was a hint of pink tongue as she pressed it briefly against the ridge of her front teeth. Her skin glowed and her mouth—that mouth again—was faintly damp and trembling.
    Northam raised his gloved hands and tugged on the transparent scarf secured against her cheek and chin. The bow was easily undone and the hat dropped behind her head and into his hands. He fixed it behind his back with one hand while the other twisted so that the scarf was wrapped around his wrist. The deed was done so quickly that from Elizabeth's perspective it seemed to have been accomplished by sleight of hand.
    Northam watched her brush impatiently at the fine curling tendrils clinging to her temples. A few drier strands fluttered against her forehead. The arrangement of her hair, pulled back from her face in a French braid, enhanced the faintly exotic shape of her eyes. She was regarding him without censure, waiting, it seemed, for him to be done with his game and return her hat, unharmed, to her head.
    Northam knew that no matter what his intentions had been they were of little account now.
    He bent his head and laid his lips over hers. Her mouth—her splendid mouth—was soft and yielding. That dark space between her parted lips opened and invited him in. Warm. Moist. She sucked in her breath and drew in his lower lip. Her teeth touched the sensitive underside and she bit gently, so very gently; then those small perfect teeth moved sideways in a sawing motion, tugging and suckling. Delicate. Precise.
    And all the blood in Northam's head surged to his groin.
    The last time Elizabeth Penrose had engaged in a kiss, she had been deeply, irrevocably in love. Even in retrospect she could not see it differently. To rename that experience of her heart as an infatuation was to make it so much less than it had been and she would not trivialize it. Certainly there had been moments of exhilaration. That wildly intense and ultimately exhausting joy had made her heart pound and blood roar in her ears. She had known lightheadedness on hearing her name said in a particular way, had felt a delicious sort of apprehension when she