“You seem to be mistaking revenge for being wronged,” Brodie shot back as he leaned forward to talk to her. “Never forget, lass, that you started all this.” The air tensed between them in that instant, and Lydia reacted instinctively to his aggressive invasion of her space.
Lydia struck, not with an open palm, but a balled fist to his jaw. The blow stung, to be sure, but his hard face had met with harder blows over many years of boxing and brawls. He touched his face, puzzled. At the ball, she’d given him a delicate, even childish slap. Now he was facing a woman who was upset, truly lashing out.
“Ouch.” She clutched her hand against her chest. “I think I broke my hand on your hard head!”
“Serves you right,” he muttered, expecting her to continue to bemoan an exaggerated injury. But her face continued to be lined with pain. A sinking feeling in his chest quickly deflated his temper.
“All right, let me see, lass.” He waved a hand at her.
“I’m fine.”
He could see clearly how much she was hurting now. He joined her on the other seat and reached for her hand. She flinched as he pulled her arm toward him, examining her wrist and hand.
“Does this hurt?” He rotated her wrist, and she bit her lip and nodded.
“And this?” He flexed her delicate pale fingers, trying not to let his mind run away with images of her slender hands touching his body.
“That doesn’t hurt too much,” she whispered. “It’s more my wrist, I think.”
Brodie moved his fingers back to her wrist, gently massaging, but she would need to rest it for it to fully heal.
“You’ve likely sprained it, lass. It is an easy mistake. When you mean to punch a man, never let your wrist bend.” He raised up her good arm and balled her fingers into a fist. “Swing slow, at my jaw,” he commanded. She stared at him in disbelief. He sighed. “Do it.”
She slowly swung her uninjured hand at him. He caught her fist in his palm and used his other hand to show her where her wrist was bent incorrectly—just a little force caused it to bend even farther.
“See? That’s how you hurt yourself. Keep it straight.”
“Oh, I see.” Lydia straightened her wrist and pushed forward. Though he still held her fist, it was easy to see how much more stable this position was, locking right up to her elbow. “Why are you teaching me to hit you?”
Brodie chuckled, his anger fading. “I suppose because it is adorable to see you attempt to be feisty, lass.” He sobered. “Though if you truly want to hurt a man who means you harm, lift your skirts high and kick him in the bollocks.”
“His . . . Oh, good heavens, I could never—”
Brodie cupped her chin. “If a man means to harm you, you must not hesitate to defend yourself. Men talk about fighting fair, but men who win fights keep their mouths shut and do what they have to. Remember that.”
Lydia bit her lip, and Brodie wanted more than anything to sweep her onto his lap and nibble that lip himself. Brodie took in her dainty nose, the heavy fall of lashes that swept down over her cheeks each time she blinked, and the soft natural rose in her cheeks that blended with her creamy skin.
It brought back a dim memory that seemed more like a dream to him. It was of his mother in the kitchens, dipping fresh strawberries into clotted cream. She would hand each of her children a strawberry, and he, his brothers, and Rosalind would enjoy the treat with her. It was one of the few happy memories he had of his mother before she died.
Brodie wondered if Lydia’s mouth would remind him of strawberries and cream. He reached up to touch her again, and her breath came swifter, her face flushed as he leaned in.
“If you dinna want me to kiss you, you’d best hit me now like I showed you, lass,” he warned and gave her but a handful of heartbeats to decide.
No blow came. Instead, her lashes closed, her lips parted, and in one quick motion, Brodie cornered her against the coach wall and swept her into his arms. His body jolted with heat the second he claimed her mouth. Her lips were warm and trembling beneath his.
This was no bold kiss like the one she’d given him when he’d been tied down. This was the very opposite. She shivered, and her hands fluttered against his body before they settled on top of his chest. Her fingertips dug into the cloth of his bottle-green silk waistcoat. He flicked his tongue against her lips, and she startled, opening to him further. Her sweet taste did indeed remind him of cream and strawberries.
Brodie coaxed her to be bold, and he showed her with his mouth what he wanted most.
“Give in to me, sweetness,” he whispered seductively. “Let me master you, my wild beauty.” He had never wanted so much to control a woman’s passion like he wanted to control Lydia’s. Perhaps it was due to his frustration over the brief time she had been his master, or maybe it was simply that seeing her play a wanton innocent now was bringing out a primal part of him that wanted to own every part of her and teach her all the sensual delights he knew.
He groaned in agonized pleasure and cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss. Her startled little sounds drew his baser instincts to the surface. He grasped her uninjured wrist and pinned it to the padded wall of the coach beside her head, holding her prisoner while he claimed his revenge in kisses.
She was panting, her fast breaths creating a rise and fall of her breasts, and he moved his mouth down to those tempting mounds. Her skin was smooth, and the creamy mounds were as flushed as her face. He wondered if her nipples were the same soft, sweet pink as her lips or a duskier color. He pressed hot kisses to her breasts, wishing her gown wasn’t so tight, so that he might free her breasts completely.
She moaned as he flicked his tongue in the sensitive space between her breasts, and he laughed softly against her skin.
“Ach, there’s so much a man can do with breasts like these,” he murmured, and she only breathed harder.
“What things?” she asked, her words breathy as she wriggled against him.
“Oh, grand, wicked things. Things a lass like you once claimed to ken.” He repeated the flick of his tongue, this time along the edge of her bodice, mere inches from her nipples.
“Mr. Kincade . . . Please, I can’t . . .”
He glanced up at her face. A light layer of sweat dewed her skin, and he couldn’t resist giving her what he knew she needed.
“Let me touch you, lass. I can ease the ache.”
“Yes, please, I need you to touch me,” she insisted breathlessly.
Brodie released her wrist and slid one hand up her leg, beneath her skirts, gently questing through the frothy lace of her underpinnings until he discovered her mound. She nearly shrieked with apparent surprise, but he silenced her with a long, hot kiss.
“Easy, lass, let me continue.” He stroked his fingertips down her mound and to the bud of arousal that he wanted to see but couldn’t, given the tight confines of the coach. He would have to content himself with working the pad of his thumb over it, pressing and brushing until Lydia screamed with pleasure against his mouth.
Brodie drank down her cry of startled pleasure, relishing his victory. She was going to be well and truly his soon enough, and she would never be satisfied with any other man again. Then, once she was hopelessly ruined and desperately in love with him, he would cast her off and send her home to her bastard of a father.