Now she eased her fingers over his temples, finding his close-cropped hair warm and sleek. She liked the way the shorn ends tickled her fingers.
“Mmm,” Steven said. “That’s nice.”
Steven was nice, and Rose desired him—she knew what the heat flushing her body meant.
“I’ve always been good at soothing away hurts,” Rose said.
Steven’s eyes flicked open, his gaze seeking hers. “Have you now?” He finished with an upturn of lips, a wicked one. “Skilled with your hands, are you?”
Her face went hot, but she kept her voice light. “Are you flirting with me, Captain McBride?”
“With my own fiancée? Of course I am.” His smiled broadened. “I’m not a polite man, Rosie, I warn you.”
Rose didn’t want to be polite. She wanted to sit here and drown in him, to let him smile at her like that all day long.
She made herself ease away and rise to her feet. “We should get on.”
Steven looked up at her from where he lay back on his elbows, his gaze taking in every inch of her. “You’re right, Rosie. We should carry on until we’re both satisfied.”
Rose flushed and turned to the next half of the staircase. “You’re being naughty now.”
“I’m naughty all the time, sweetest Rose.”
He came off the steps and to his feet, moving swiftly for a man with a bad headache. Steven caught up to her and stopped her, Rose one step above him.
The stair took away their difference in height, putting their faces on the same level. Steven’s breath touched Rose’s lips, reminding her of the all-too-brief kiss he’d given her on the staircase at the hotel.
What was it about staircases? Rose couldn’t stop herself reaching out and touching his cheek.
Steven’s guarded expression dropped. He looked at her with na**d wanting, no disguising it, no holding back. As warmth swept through Rose, answering heat flared in his eyes.
It was nothing to lean a small bit forward and kiss his lips.
Steven’s eyes swept closed as his arm came around her, nothing gentle. He parted her lips with a strong mouth, pulling her close, binding her to him. He swept his tongue into her, no politeness, no reticence. This kiss was insistent and new, and the hot, wild friction of it swept away the rest of Rose’s reluctance.
No man had ever kissed her like this before, not with this raw, desperate wanting. These weren’t the hesitant kisses of a man who feared to offend a respectable widow. Steven knew what he wanted, and he would take it, to hell with civility.
Rose cupped the back of his neck, again finding the sleek fineness of his hair. Strength and heat came through his body, entering hers at every point of contact. She knew his hunger as his mouth worked. Every part of Rose went shaky—the only thing holding her up was Steven. Her legs had lost all strength.
Steven’s mouth was fire. One hand came up between them, cupping her breast in his palm, hand tightening.
She was going to fall. Rose clutched Steven’s back, fingers pressing through his coat to the hard strength of him.
Steven pulled away a little, but only to smooth a lock of her hair. “My Scottish Rose.” His voice was low, uneven.
Rose couldn’t speak, couldn’t answer. She wanted to kiss him again. Wanted it more than anything, more than she should, especially standing in this house.
Steven brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingertips. His brows drew together, then he touched the corner of her mouth.
Just as Rose thought he’d pulled away, he made a raw sound in his throat and kissed her again.
Heady sensations, heat chasing shivers, and again Rose had to lock her fingers on to his coat to remain on her feet. Steven closed his teeth over her lower lip, and fire streaked through her, like a lightning storm homing in on one point.
Steven traced her lip with his tongue, then once more slid his mouth over hers. This time, Rose met his strokes with her own, their bodies locked together, touched by the cool draft from the staircase.
Sanity didn’t return even when Steven eased back, wiping a tiny bit of moisture from Rose’s upper lip.
“Oh, Rosie,” he said, his accent thick. “Why the devil did I have to meet ye?”
“We didn’t meet.” Rose struggled to find her voice. “We stumbled into each other.”
“Aye, and I wanted to stay fallen on you forever. You’re a beautiful woman, my Scottish Rose. You could be the end of me.”
And you, of me, Rose finished silently.
Steven touched her cheeks, his hands caressing as he held her with his gaze. His eyes looked clearer now, the same color as the winter sky through the window behind him.
Love was for warmth, and spring, Rose tried to tell herself. Not for winter, and cold.
But perhaps love knew no seasons—it simply came when it was time.
“We should commence our search,” Steven said. “Before young John returns to be shocked.”
“Yes.” Again, Rose had to search for breath to form the sound. “We should.”
Steven smiled at her, which did nothing to help Rose collect herself. He released her from the comfort of his arms, but only to take her hand and lead her on up the stairs.
***
Steven hadn’t caught his breath even by the time Rose had led him up through the maze of the house to the top floor.
The manor wasn’t truly a maze—it had been built at the end of the seventeenth century, when straight lines and symmetrical architecture had been in fashion. But its occupants had, for the past two hundred years, filled it with screens, cabinetry, sofas, tables, chairs, paintings, bric-a-brac, mirrors, chests, highboys, étagères, desks, and credenzas by the score, and every room had mixed and matched styles from over the centuries. A decorator in the past had tried to break up the severity of right angles in rooms by placing the furniture together in the middle, which succeeded only in making everything more of a jumble.
Might have interested Steven more if his whole body hadn’t been burning from Rose’s nearness. One taste of her wasn’t enough, and never would be.
Steven had sensed a desperate hunger in her, one she might not even realize she possessed. Rose obviously missed her husband, but whether or not he’d satisfied her in bed was anyone’s guess. The fact that the man had died on their honeymoon could mean anything from he’d been overexcited making love to his beautiful wife to slipping and falling down the stairs. The journalists would believe the first—that Rose had killed him by being too eager in the bridegroom’s bed, but Steven had no idea what the real story was.