Page 11 of By Any Other Name

“What!” Rylla’s eyes widened in shock. Good heavens, what a coil! Now she had managed to embroil her friend in it, as well. “How did you—”

“What? Did you think I would not pursue you? You gave me a few hints. It was enough.”

“They weren’t hints,” Rylla protested. “You make it sound as if I wanted you to find me.”

“Didn’t you?” There was a certain smug male satisfaction in his tone. It was, she decided, extremely annoying.

“Of course not! The last thing I wanted was for you to search for me.”

“I think perhaps you did.” His thumbs began a slow, enticing circling. “Makes one wonder whether you wanted to see if I would follow. If I wanted you enough.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I don’t think I am.” He drew closer, so that only a fraction of an inch lay between their bodies all the way up and down. Somehow that infinitesimal space separating them was more stirring than if he had actually touched her.

There was a crack, loud in the silence of their hideaway, as the handle of the door turned. Rylla felt the reaction go through Gregory like a shot even before the meaning of the noise registered. He pivoted, pulling her farther back.

The newcomer paused after opening the door, admitting a slender shaft of light. Rylla could now see the stacks of boxes, trunks, and other articles stored in the small room. The space formed by the staircase above was long, the ceiling slanting downward to the rear. A narrow central passageway ran through the middle of the trunks and boxes. Gregory whisked Rylla up the aisle into the deepest recesses of the closet, bending down to avoid knocking his head on the sloping ceiling.

As a footman stepped into the closet, Gregory ducked behind a pile of boxes and sat down on a trunk, pulling Rylla into his lap. They were hidden by the stack in front of them . . . as long as the servant didn’t go any deeper. Rylla wriggled back as far as she could. She felt Gregory jerk at her movement, and his arms tightened around her waist.

They waited, trapped, as the footman searched the high shelf on the side wall of the closet, muttering beneath his breath. With each passing moment, the intimacy of their situation grew. Encompassed by the darkness, Rylla was intensely aware of her other senses.

Gregory had curled his body protectively around her, so that she seemed surrounded by him—the heat and scent of his warm male body, the thud of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear, the strength of his arms, the stirring of his breath upon her hair. That pulse of hard flesh beneath her.

His body grew tauter, every muscle and sinew hardening. Rylla heard the beat of his heart increase, felt his chest rise and fall more rapidly. A soft insistent ache began to blossom between her legs. She shifted her position, and Gregory’s hand clenched convulsively in her skirts. The footman edged toward them. Rylla’s nerves were stretched to the snapping point.

“Ha!” The footman slid something from the shelf. A moment later the door opened, then closed, and they were once more alone in the room. Rylla went limp with relief. Gregory, too, relaxed, his arms slowly sliding from her body.

He let out a long sigh, his breath ruffling her hair. He curved one hand around her throat and slid it up to cup her chin. He turned Rylla’s face to him, and his mouth fastened on hers. This kiss was not the soft coaxing of his earlier kisses, but urgent and demanding. Curving one arm around her back, he let his other hand drift down her throat and onto her chest. Rylla jerked in surprise as he cupped her breast. But it was, she discovered, a delightful sensation. She made no protest, letting the pleasure wash through her.

Gregory’s mouth roamed over her throat. Rylla’s head fell back, offering the vulnerable flesh to his touch. She could hear the harsh rasp of his breath. He mumbled something unintelligible against her skin. His hand left her breast, sliding lower. “Eleanor . . .”

The name jarred Rylla out her pleasure-drenched daze. “No!” She jumped off his lap and staggered back, holding her hand out in front of her as if to ward him off. “Stop.”

Chapter Six

Gregory jerked forward as she left his lap, his hand lashing out and grabbing her skirts. He hung there for a charged moment, his eyes locked on hers, the only sound in the room the harsh in-and-out of his breath. He closed his eyes and opened his hand, letting her dress fall free.

“You must stop calling me that.” Rylla edged out of the piles of storage. “I am not Eleanor McIntyre.”

“Is that so?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t believe I mentioned your last name.” His eyes gleamed in the dim light.

Clearly, she had only increased his conviction that she was Eleanor. Rylla gazed at him in frustration. Even if she told him her real name now, she had the feeling he wouldn’t believe her. But she had to convince him not to reveal anything. Eleanor’s reputation was at stake, as well as her own.

“Please. I beg of you. Don’t speak of me or try to find me again. Don’t tell anyone I am Eleanor. If word of what I have done got out, it would ruin me. I know I have given you no reason to believe my reputation deserves guarding, but—”

“You think I would damage your reputation?” He was on his feet and coming after her, his jaw set grimly. “I would never—”

“Kiss me? Manhandle me in a dark closet?”

His brows snapped together. “You were the one who pulled me into the closet! And I did not manhandle you.”

“You scarcely behaved like a gentleman.”

“You scarcely behaved like a lady.”

“I know I did not!” Rylla snapped back. “That is precisely why I did not tell you my name.”