Mary's Christmas Knight Read Online Free Page A

prolonging his ridiculous moment. She didn’t do it, not overmuch. Cutting apart his shirt revealed a monstrous chest she had seen once before from her balcony seat, when he’d played Oberon the fairy king in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Up close he was a colossus. Shoulders broader than the space it would take to raise her elbows. Block-shaped pectorals the size of lamb roasts, covered with a swirling pattern of crisp dark hair her fingers grazed as she removed cut fragments of the shirt.
    She tried imagining him an inert Rodin sculpture in bronze, but his skin gave under her touch, noticeable degrees warmer than hers. Living, breathing, a wonder and a threat. Having freed his right arm, collar, and ribs, she cut the fabric along the left shoulder seam then down the side to his waist. Impossible not to stare at the columns of muscle over his belly contracting with his even breaths. And the narrow trail of hair that disappeared below the waistband of his trousers, wet and hanging low on his hips…
    Wordlessly he dropped to the bed and caught her staring at his chest.
    “Go ahead, lick it. Or grab on.” His voice came so soft and lazy, at first she thought she’d imagined the words.
    “What?”
    “Go all the way up.” He tucked his uninjured arm behind his head and regarded her with hooded eyes. “I promise, I’ll like it. Especially if you take care with the sensitive bits. I’ll show you where.”
    That’s what she thought he ’d meant. Her hand drew back, then almost without permission from her brain, she slapped him hard across the cheek, making a gratifying smack! sound.
    First his face turned white, then a welt the shape of her palm and fingers blistered on his cheek. Her hand tingled and stung. He stared, his expression unreadable, and she stared back, horrified at her violent outburst. Belatedly a wave of anger steamed in her head, reinforcing her indignation. Who does he think he is?
    Lieutenant Baxter’s hoist creaked, and she worried he would lever himself out of bed to defend her honor. She’d better do it herself. She gestured to him behind her back and turned to face the infamous Sir Wesley Samuel Darcy.
    “I will assume y ou are impaired by the morphine, sir, however perversely. And you will apologize. Sincerely. And henceforth regard me as the lady that I am. Or else I shall turn on my heel and not come back. And may the devil let you bleed all the way to hell.” Mary heaved for breath, the whalebone seams of her corset straining with embarrassing creaking noises as her lungs pushed for air, but she hardly cared. Her vision flashed black spots, warning that she’d faint if she couldn’t calm herself.
    Aunt Sophia would be so disappointed to hear Mary had spouted not one, but two truly wicked curses in as many minutes. Followed by a proclamation of gentility. Still she couldn’t muster much shame. It went without saying his person was realms of glory above hers, but his uncharitable mocking was inexcusable for a gentleman. For any Christian. But then — Sir Wesley was proving himself quite the heathen.
    “My lady.” He sketched a formal bow, too flourishing to be serious. “I sincerely apologize for my opium-and-grief-induced impropriety. And for the spontaneous indulging of my carnal appetites which were so offensive to my lady. I beg humble forgiveness—”
    “Cheeky.” She rested a hand on her hip and took a step backward, toward the exit.
    “I solemnly swear to never again issue such lascivious invitations, barring even the very becoming appearance of desire in said lady’s lovely countenance. May her unfailing virtue ever be to her credit, despite the look of Lilith and temptation about her.”
    Lilith? Temptation? Mary blew out a breath, trying to dispel the urge to argue, which was probably his intention. She should make good on her threat to leave him unmended.
    “Come now, my lady . Surely your good Christian upbringing prevents you from neglecting a soul