the palace, the while he slid his hands to hers and drew them against him. “I
want to take you into my house. You understand, you’ll be safe there. In all
uncertainties. I have connections, and resources. I place them all at your
disposal.”
“I can’t, I daren’t, I daren’t leave-“
“Moria.” He gathered her against him, hugged her so tightly that the sense half
left her, tilted her face up and brought his mouth down on hers, which was
perhaps all he could do, being a fool; and perhaps there was something wrong
with her too, because his touching her did something to her that only Haught had
done before, of many, many men, some for money and some for need and most of
them come to grief and no good in the scattering of the hawkmasks. That was a
world that had nothing to do with the silk and the perfume and the smell and the
craziness of the uptown lord who smothered the breath that was left in her and
ran his hands over her with an abandon that would have gotten him a knife in the
gut back in her old wild days, but which now, through the lacings and the silk
and the lace, made her think nothing in the world so desirable as shed ding all
that binding and breathing and doing what she had wanted to do with this man
since first she had laid eyes on him there on her doorstep. He would not be like
Haught, not reserved, not holding so much of himself back: this man was fever
mad, and it was all going to happen right here in the drawing-room for the
servants and all to gawk at if she did not prevent him….
“Upstairs,” she murmured, fending off his hands from her. “Upstairs.”