move. She could only gaze into the unfathomable depth of the eyes with their indefinable darkness, black or charcoal, or something darker than the midnight sea, yet with a fire that burned with lustful longing. From somewhere she found the strength to lift her hand, to touch that shadowed roughness of his cheek that had so intrigued her.

“Slap my face, Sylvia. Make me leave.”

But she was helpless. He lit fires inside her she had nearly forgotten could exist. She wanted to feel the lips that changed from harsh to gentle, that flexed with sensuality. She slipped her hand behind his neck.

His lips found hers, touched in aching tenderness, then touched again, harsher, demanding, powerful, suddenly deeply invading. She gasped and hungrily met kiss for kiss. Eagerly tasting. Eagerly returning his invasion.

He leaned over her, the blue and red striped silk falling open. She slipped her hand beneath the sensuous fabric, her fingers threading through crisp hairs, tracing muscles on his chest, and up to expose thickly muscled arms. It glided away to the floor like falling water, baring skin tanned golden to his waist. With a growling moan, his hands plunged beneath the blanket and bunched up the red banyan above her thighs, up and over her head. He slid atop her, hands once more cupping her face, running down beyond her shoulders to her breasts.

“Witch,” he said, mumbling into her mouth as he drew her into another deep kiss.

“No—I’m not,” she murmured back. But the words were lost in the rush of wild passion flowing through her, igniting flames that shot through to her core.

“Sorceress. You’ve bewitched me,” he replied.

“I think you’re afraid, Vailmont.”

“No.” He kissed her again as if he meant to devour her.

“I’ll make you a potion,” she gasped between his kisses. “Angelica and hyssop. To ward off witchcraft.”

“Nothing could ward you off.”

Her arrival stirs something deep and dark. Perhaps even deadly…

 

Face of the Maiden

© 2008 Emma Wildes

 

Celia Fairmont’s new home on the wild coast of Cornwall is a sprawling ancient mansion steeped in history and deep, dark secrets. From the first night her dreams are plagued by images of clandestine meetings with a handsome, reckless lover. The man in her visions looks disturbingly like the oldest son of her new guardian, the Earl of Ashbourne, but there the resemblance stops. Phillip Leighton is practical to a fault and too preoccupied with estate business to even notice her presence.

Phillip Leighton does not have time for illogical romantic fantasies about his father’s young ward. The very lovely Miss Fairmont is unsophisticated and innocent—not at all suited to be the next Countess of Ashbourne. And besides, he is practically engaged to a titled widow. But erotic dreams disturb his nights, and by day she preoccupies his thoughts, and he finds himself fascinated against his will.

Phillip can’t seem to keep Celia out of his head—or out of his arms. When a series of puzzling accidents begins to happen, he knows with chilling certainty that their future is on a collision course with the past…

Warning: This title contains explicit sensual love scenes, sexy ghosts, violence, some bad language in a polite Regency way, and a devilish wayward rake or two.

 

Enjoy the following excerpt for Face of the Maiden:

The mist sent long tendrils like ghostly fingers out of the darkness to cross the path. It hung in gray banks over the trees, shrouding the surroundings and making everything seem still and dead. As she ran along, something moved in the black shadows to her right, snapping twigs and rustling leaves. She paused, her heart beginning to pound the blood through her body in a rush, panic rising on a knife-edge of control, when some creature shot out of the bushes and streaked into the night. Her breath went out in an audible whistle of relief and she caught up her heavy skirts in her hands, hurrying forward.

She was late. Again.

Excitement and anticipation grew, overcoming some of her fear over the solitary walk in the eerie fog. Ahead she could see vague shapes begin to take form, squares suggestive of human mortality, and she swallowed down a quick shiver.

She should have insisted on a different meeting place, she thought, weaving her way through the headstones. Discretion was one thing…this flair for the dramatic was another.

Almost there.

A dark figure detached itself from the swirling gray.

The materialization was unnerving, startling, and even though she had expected him…a cold ache of fear twisted in her stomach. The black edge of his cloak flapped in the wind as he stood still.

He outstretched his hand slowly in unspoken command and invitation. She ran into his arms and he wrapped the cloak around them both as she buried her face in his chest and clung to him.

“For a moment,” she whispered breathlessly, “I…I wasn’t sure it was you.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, my love.”

She snuggled deeper into his embrace, her heart still jerking erratically in her chest. He lifted his hand to stroke her hair and she felt the ripple of muscle under her cheek, relishing his strength, the strong clasp of his arms around her.

Reproachfully, she said, “Meeting in a graveyard sets the mood for a good fright, would you not say?”

His laugh stirred her hair. “I didn’t order the mist, my sweet. It was a gift from the gods themselves. And as for our meeting place…think of us as ghosts, as would anyone who might see us here.”

She was silent. He was only too right. It was an unfortunate reality; this necessary secret that sent them creeping to each other among the sleeping dead.

His heartbeat had quickened already under her ear. So impatient, she thought with a small smile, always so ready and impatient…

“Come.” He released her