Read At the Queen's Summons for Free Online

church at Innisfallen. Somehow, that same lofty, otherworldly magic touched Pippa.
    â€œThe clothes,” she stated, “are magnificent.”
    He allowed himself a controlled smile designed to preserve her fervent pride. “And so they are. Let me help you with some of the fastenings.”
    â€œAh, my silly lord, I’ve done them all up myself.”
    â€œIndeed you have. But since you lack a proper lady’s maid to help you, I should take her part.”
    â€œYou’re very kind,” she said.
    â€œNot always,” he replied, but she seemed oblivious of the warning edge in his voice. “Come here.”
    She crossed the room without hesitation. He could not decide whether that was healthy or not. Should a young woman alone be so trusting of a strange man? Her trust was no gift, but a burden.
    â€œFirst the bodice,” he said patiently, untying the haphazard knot she had made in the lacings. “I have never wondered why it mattered, but fashion demands that you wear it with the other end up.”
    â€œTruly?” She stared down at the stiff garment in dismay. “It covered more of me upside down. When you turn it the other way, I spill out like loaves from a pan.”
    His loins burned with the image, and he gritted his teeth. The last thing he had expected was that he might desire her. Pippa lifted her arms and held them steady while he unlaced the bodice.
    It proved to be the most excruciating exercise in self-restraint he had ever endured. Somehow, the dust and ashes of her harsh life had masked an uncounted wealth of charms. He had the feeling that he was the first man to see beneath the grime and ill-fitting clothes.
    As he pulled the laces through, his knuckles grazed her. The maids had provided neither shift nor corset. Allthat lay between Pippa’s sweet flesh and his busy hands was a chemise of wispy lawn. He could feel the heat of her, could smell the clean, beeswaxy fragrance of her just washed skin and hair.
    Setting his jaw with manly restraint, he turned the bodice right side up and brought it around her. As he slowly laced the garment, watching the stiff buckram close around a narrow waist and then widen over the subtle womanly flare of her hips, pushing up her breasts, he could not banish his insistent desire.
    True to her earlier observation, her bosom swelled out over the top with frank appeal, barely contained by the sheer fabric of the chemise. He could see the high, rounded shapes, the rosy shadows of the tips, and for a long, agonizing moment all he could think of was touching her there, tenderly, learning the shape and weight of her breasts, burying his face in them, drowning in the essence of her.
    A roaring, like the noise of the sea, started in his ears, swishing with the quickening rhythm of his blood. He bent his head closer, closer, his tongue already anticipating the flavor of her, his lips hungry for the budded texture. His mouth hovered so close that he could feel the warmth emanating from her.
    She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and the movement reminded him to think with his brain—even the small part of it that happened to be working at the moment—not with his loins.
    He was the O Donoghue Mór, an Irish chieftain who, a year before, had given up all rights to touch another woman. He had no business dallying with—of all things—a Sassenach vagabond, probably a madwoman at that.
    He forced himself to stare not at the bodice, but intoher eyes. And what he saw there was more dangerous than the lush curves of her body. What he saw there was not madness, but a painful eagerness.
    It struck him like a slap, and he caught his breath, then hissed out air between his teeth.
    He wanted to shake her. Don’t show me your yearning, he wanted to say. Don’t expect me to do anything about it.
    What he said was, “I am in London on official business. I will return to Ireland as soon as I am able.”
    â€œI’ve