“Of course.”
Emma’s eyes widened as she turned her head to watch Rurik stride toward the back of the house.
“Wait.” She jerked back to meet his amused expression as Rurik disappeared. “I see you have your servants trained to ignore the pleas of the poor women you kidnap.”
Dimitri climbed the stairs, fully enjoying the sensation of Emma cradled in his arms.
“Rurik needed no training. He was a pirate who terrorized the seas until he was captured by the French during the war.”
“If he was captured then what is he doing here?”
He reached the upper landing and headed directly for the main saloon.
“I take exception to fine Russian citizens being tortured by that French imposter.”
She made a choked sound of disbelief. “You snuck into Napoleon’s prison?”
“There are few men more loyal than those who have been rescued from the guillotine. And, of course, his wife happens to be the finest cook in the empire. When she promised her services in exchange for her husband’s freedom I could not resist.”
Her eyes narrowed, obviously suspecting the danger Dimitri had risked sneaking into the brutal French prison despite his nonchalant tone. Thankfully, her probing questions died on her lips as he stepped into the long saloon.
A tiny gasp escaped her as she studied the coved ceiling with gilded rosettes that framed the line of crystal chandeliers. The walls were covered in emerald satin panels with marble columns set between the high arched windows. The furniture had been purchased from the finest Russian craftsmen as had the parquet floor that was inlaid with cherry and teak. In all, it was a room that spoke of refined elegance.
“What is this place?” she asked as he settled her on the gold settee beside the massive black marble fireplace.
He moved to light the logs already stacked in the fireplace, chuckling at her astonished tone.
“My home.”
“Your home?”
Turning, he leaned against the carved mantel and regarded her with a lift of his brows.
“Despite the rumors, I do not crawl from the pits of hell each evening.”
She waved a hand toward the delicate jade figurines perched on a satinwood table.
“This hardly suits the image of the Beggar Czar.”
“True—” he shrugged “—which is why I have several residences spread throughout the city. Each of them serve their own specific purpose.”
“And what purpose does this residence serve? Your private brothel?”
“If that were true it would be an abysmal failure.”
She jerked as if he had slapped her. “I suppose that is yet another insult at my lack of attractiveness?”
He frowned, prowling toward the settee. Was the woman demented? She was the most tempting, most exquisitely beautiful female he had ever encountered.
“On the contrary, moya dusha, it is the highest compliment.” He sat on the cushion next to her stiff body, turning to study her wounded hazel eyes. “You are the only female beyond my cook to ever step over the threshold. In fact, there are less than a handful of people who even know of this house. I come here when I desire to be alone.”
“Then why have you brought me here?”
With experienced ease, he reached to unbutton her cloak, tossing it aside, not at all surprised to discover her swathed in yet another layer of brown wool beneath.
“A dangerous question, Emma Linley-Kirov.”
He felt her shiver as he turned his attention to the buttons that lined the gown from her chin to beneath the soft swell of her bosom.
“For goodness’ sake, what are you doing?”
His blood heated as he slowly peeled back the heavy material to reveal the satin beauty beneath.
“Attempting to understand why you would believe for a moment I find you lacking in appeal.”
“You have accused me of being a shrill-tongued spinster, a selfish martyr—” Her recriminations faded to a breathless sigh when he pressed his lips to the base of her throat.
“A delectable innocent who I have imagined unwrapping from your woolen layers a hundred times.”
Her hands lifted to lie against his chest, but she made no effort to push him away.
“You complained when I did not hide myself.”
“Of course.” He stroked his lips to the hollow beneath her ear, his fingers continuing to unbutton the body of her gown. “Only I am allowed to enjoy your most intimate beauty.”
“I think you enjoy mocking me.”
“If you need proof of my desire I am happy to oblige.”
“That is not—” She squeaked in alarm as he effortlessly pressed her back onto the cushions of the settee, following downward to cover her with his larger body. “Oh. Good Lord.”
Good Lord, indeed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EMMA KNEW SHE WAS IN trouble as soon as he claimed her lips in a kiss that seared her to the tips of her toes. She was aware of being lowered to the cushions, and the pleasant sensation of his hard body pressed to her softer curves. More distantly, she could feel the friction of the wool gown as it was pulled slowly, yet relentlessly down her body. But the fear that should have had her shoving him away was overwhelmed by the excitement that jolted through her.
Clutching at his shoulders, she quivered as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, silently encouraging them to part. Hesitantly, she opened her mouth, shocked as he dipped his tongue between her lips. He tasted of cognac and danger, a heady combination that made her heart race.
Over and over he plundered her willing lips, his tongue tangling with hers in a beautiful dance.
She heard him groan, his hands expertly loosening her curls and gently spreading them across the cushions beneath her. His touch was tender, but she sensed the fierce hunger under the surface. It was etched in the taut muscles beneath her hands and the harsh rasp of his breath.
She shifted beneath him, her fingers biting into his shoulders. What was the odd restlessness that was plaguing her? The sense that her body was seeking a fulfillment that only Dimitri could offer?
“So sweet,” he murmured, his lips drifting down the line of her jaw.
She instinctively tilted back her head, offering her throat to his skillful kisses.
“This is insanity,” she muttered.
“Delectable madness,” he readily agreed, his hands lowering to cup the soft swell of her breasts.
Emma shuddered in shocked pleasure, realizing her gown had been tugged down to her waist, revealing the plain shift she wore beneath. She could feel the heat of his hand branding through the thin material and when he bent his head to cover a straining nipple with his mouth, she nearly screamed. Dear Lord. The feel of the damp linen and the rough stroke of his tongue grazing her sensitive nipple were sending tiny darts of bliss through her.
She had never suspected a man’s touch could offer such exquisite pleasure. Or that her body would respond with an aching need that overrode the whispers of alarm in the back of her mind.
“Dimitri?”
“Yes, moya dusha,” he softly assured her,