The Pleasure of Your Kiss Read Online Free Page A

the harsh desert sun, it wasn’t those exotic eyes or lush lips he saw. Instead, it was green eyes the color of spring clover and a pink upper lip that was nearly as full as the lower—its delectable softness tempting a man to lean down and give it a gentle nip.
    As he drew in what was sure to be one of his final breaths, it wasn’t the seductive aroma of jasmine and myrrh that flooded his lungs, but a teasing hint of lily of the valley, as clean and tender as blooms nestled in the last snowfall of winter. It was the scent of all the things he hadn’t allowed himself to yearn for since embracing his self-imposed exile. It was the scent of England, the scent of home … the scent of her .
    He’d spent nearly a decade studiously avoiding any thought of her, but it seemed she’d been lying in wait for him all along, anticipating the moment when he’d be stripped of all his defenses.
    A mocking smile curved his lips, making his executioners mutter nervously among themselves as they awaited the command to fire. His reputation for daring escapes had obviously preceded him. This wasn’t exactly the first time he’d faced death. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he’d faced a firing squad.
    What they could not know was that his smile did not mock them but himself. Perhaps it was only fitting she would be haunting him in these final moments of his life. Soon enough he would be haunting her. He’d be damned—and he might well be, given the alarming number of Commandments he’d broken just in the past fortnight—if he’d go to his eternal resting place without paying her one last visit.
    He could almost see himself melting out of the moonlight to materialize as a misty vapor over her bed. He could see the wheaten silk of her unbound hair spilling across the pillow, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts beneath the bodice of some ridiculously virginal nightgown. He would cover her, leaning down to steal one last kiss from her parted lips as he filled all of her empty places with his essence. She would awaken in the morning, aching with longing, but remembering nothing more than the dream of a man who had once loved her not only with his body, but with his soul.
    A guttural command followed by the sound of a dozen muskets being cocked in unison snapped him out of his reverie.
    It seemed he wasn’t even going to be offered a final smoke or a chance to make peace with his Maker. He would die here in Morocco—a stranger in a foreign land with no one to mourn him, no one to weep over his bloodied body. When word of his ignoble death reached England, as it inevitably would, he had no doubt his parents would sigh their disappointment, while his older brother shouldered the burden of the scandal with his usual stoic reserve. Chin up and all that rot.
    But what about her?
    Would she express shock and convey her polite condolences, then sob softly into her handkerchief when she believed no one was looking? Would she wake in the night shivering with regret over all of the opportunities lost, all of the moments squandered, all of the nights they’d never shared?
    He snorted. She was far more likely to dance a merry jig on his grave than shed a single tear on his behalf.
    He squared his shoulders and tossed back his head, bracing himself for what was to come. He had always known deep in his heart that he would one day die a scoundrel, not a hero. But he would at least die with the satisfaction of knowing she would never suspect her name had been the last word on his lips.
    The drums began to roll out a steady beat, heralding the final seconds of his life.
    He squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold. Even in darkness she was there, laughing up at him with her mischievous smile and her dancing green eyes.
    He held his breath, waiting to hear the command that would bring his ribald joke of a life to an end.
    What he heard instead were raised voices, a brief but savage scuffle, and what sounded like an entire regiment of boots