Wicked Nights With a Lover by Sophie Jordan Page A

abductor’s voice curled around her, smoky and deep. A bothersome and confusing reaction. Why should she feel anything but fear for the faceless stranger determined to make her his wife? He represented everything she must avoid.
    Reminding herself they weren’t too far from London, she rubbed the vestiges of sleep from her eyes. She could still manage to find her way back to her hotel in time for tomorrow’s departure. Roger told her he would collect her at noon. She squinted at the dark outline across from her. He sat still as stone, but she did not deceive herself. She knew he was awake, had likely been watching her the entire time. A cat eyeing its prey. The hairs at her nape prickled. Rather irrationally, she wondered if he could see her. Did his gaze penetrate the dark like that of some predatory beast?
    When the carriage finally slowed, she pulled upright, snapping alert, prepared for the first opportunity to escape no matter how the memory of his voice tumbled through her and settled like liquid heat in the pit of her belly. She told herself it was simply her decision to discard propriety, to embrace carnal pleasure that had awakened this hidden part of her. Nothing more. Not him specifically. Heavens, no. She had not even clapped eyes on his face.
    “Where are we?” she asked the precise moment a groom pulled open the door.
    A sudden draft whipped inside the carriage. She wore no cloak and her wool gown afforded scarce protection. Instantly her teeth clattered, and she hugged herself tightly, squeezing her arms.
    Her abductor moved like a jungle cat then, proving that he was indeed quite awake. He descended the carriage with smooth movements, reaching back inside for her. He lowered her effortlessly to the ground, where she could appreciate the full height of him a scant moment before he turned and pulled her toward the waiting inn with its flickering windows that promised light and heat.
    She sucked in a great, icy breath, preparing herself for what she knew she must do as her feet tripped, one after the other, through the slushy ground.
    She held up her skirts, cold mud splattering up her calves, well past her half boots. With a deep breath, she fixed her sights on the inn’s double doors. She could do this.
    She envisioned the scene perfectly in her head. She would unleash an earful on the first person she saw on the other side. In minutes a magistrate would arrive, gripping her arm supportively while her captor was hauled off to the gaol.
    She almost felt sorry for him. She almost felt guilty for breaking her promise to grant him time to convince her that marrying him was a good idea. Almost —had her happiness, her very life, not been at stake. Time was something she did not have.
    As he guided her across the last half of the yard, she glanced up at his profile, steeped in the deep cover of night. The flickering lanterns hanging outside the inn afforded little relief.
    A dog barked, rushing to greet them. Her blood pounded in cold-constricted veins as she practiced various dire proclamations in her head that would stir any soul to action.
    She visualized three very large, very mean-looking men sitting inside the inn. The sort of men who loved their mothers and harbored deep-rooted protective instincts toward the fairer sex. They would surge to their feet on her behalf.
    “Wait a moment.” His hand on her arm pulled her to a stop.
    She blinked at his shadowy form, trying to decipher his intent. A slight popping sound filled the air. She cocked her head, recognizing the sound but not quite placing it. At least not until he splashed her liberally with gin.
    He’d uncorked a bottle.
    She cried out as alcohol saturated the front of her dress, sinking through her chemise into her very bones. The overpowering aroma wafted up, burning the inside of her nose.
    “Forgive me,” he said, popping the cork back in place, and not sounding in the least contrite. “A precautionary measure.”
    “What are you