The Maiden's Hand by Susan Wiggs Page A

the elegant shape of her nose and cheekbones, and flickered in the velvety depths of her eyes.
    “How does it work?” he repeated, mindless now with desire. “Well.” He pulled her toward him, passing one hand around to the back of her waist. She gasped, and he smiled.
    “It would help if you were not so stiff in your upper body.”
    “My lord—”
    “And you should hold on with both hands—just so.” He took her hands and brought them to his shoulders, then around behind his neck.
    “But—”
    “And for Christ’s sake, don’t talk. That spoils everything.”
    “What I meant was—”
    “You talked. Disobedient wench.” He cut her short with a kiss. When he had kissed her in the tavern, he had been woozy from his attack. He was recovered now, and he meant to prove to himself that he could control his desire for her. That she was no different from the dozens of other women he had wooed and won. He wanted to obliterate that one frightening moment when she had made him feel deeply. Care deeply. Want something that could never be.
    He opened his mouth over hers, brandishing his tonguelike a weapon, smoothing his hands over her shape. She was a woman like any other. A nicely put together bundle of hip and tit and silky hair. An object to be enjoyed, not enslaved by.
    Even as he told himself these things, he felt the truth crashing down around his ears. Lark was special. Lark was the one woman who could make him feel these things. Lark was—
    Oliver’s breath left him in a whoosh. He staggered back and glared at her.
    “Why did you do that?”
    She glanced at her fist, then relaxed her fingers. “Punch you in the stomach? You’ll notice I was careful not to hit your wounded side.”
    “I was kissing you, and you punched me.” The blow to his pride cut deeper than any flesh wound.
    A wry smile curved her lips. Her mouth was soft and moist, and he wanted it again, but he was too angry to try.
    He began pacing the room. “Don’t you like me, Lark?”
    “Truthfully, I think not. No matter. Spencer needs your help. I am loyal to Spencer. Ergo, I shall endure you. I must be careful with you, Oliver. I wanted to know how the Common Recovery worked, and you showed me how a kiss worked.”
    “Given a choice of the two,” he said dryly, “I’d choose the kiss every time. The Common Recovery is a heaving bore.”
    “But we can use it to bar Wynter from inheriting the priory.”
    “Aye, we can.” A delightful notion occurred to him. “It is very complex, Lark. It will take much hard work and many hours of preparation from Kit and me. And you.”
    “Me?” Her eyes went wide. Adorably wide.
    “Aye. We shall have to work very, very closely, Lark. Can you do that?”
    She seemed entranced by his look. “Aye. That is, if I must.”
    He caught her hands in his and drew her close. “You must.”
     
    “What an amazing coincidence,” Kit said the next day. “A whole tract on the Common Recovery right here in the Blackrose library.”
    “Convenient, is it not?” asked Oliver.
    Lark studied him in the pure morning light. Such strong early sunshine would surely expose his flaws. Yet she realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, that in looks, at least, Oliver de Lacey had no flaws.
    The sunlight only enhanced the spun gold of his hair, brightened the sky-blue of his eyes, and brought out the bold structure of his face and physique.
    Just the sight of him tugged at something deep and elemental inside Lark. And, heaven help her, Oliver knew. Even as she chastised herself, he caught her staring and gave her a smoldering look followed by a wink that she felt all the way to the bottoms of her feet.
    Shaking sense into herself, she pointed at the legal tract Kit was studying. “Is that rare?”
    “Aye. Why would Lord Spencer possess it? Has he a particular interest in the law?”
    Only his own rigid rules, she thought, then flayed herself for disloyalty.
    “Not that I know of. But His Lordship