Chapter 2

Daisy’s small hands clutched the edge of the mattress as though it were the only solid thing left in the world. The honeyed warmth that had started in her belly now raced outward like wildfire through dry grass. It licked along her ribs, curled around her spine, pooled hot and heavy between her thighs. Her breath came in short, startled gasps. She tried to stand, to push herself upright and away from this strange, delicious tide, but her legs would not obey. Instead they parted of their own accord, knees bending, heels sliding along the embroidered counterpane.

A soft whimper escaped her.

Dominic dropped his broom with a clatter. “Daisy? What in the seven hells...?”

He took one step toward her, then froze.

She had collapsed fully onto the bed now, lying on her back among the crisp white sheets. Her plain black dress, so modest and worn, had ridden up in her writhing. The hem bunched at her hips, revealing the pale skin of her thighs and the simple white linen of her undergarments. A dark, damp patch was already blooming at the centre, spreading slowly like ink on parchment.

Daisy’s head tipped back, fair hair spilling loose from its knot to fan across the pillow. Her lips parted on another moan, longer this time, lower, almost a purr. One small hand slid up her own body, fingers trembling as they traced the modest swell of her breasts through the bodice of her dress. The other hand drifted lower, pressing between her thighs, cupping herself over the damp fabric.

Dominic’s mouth went dry.

He had spent countless idle hours imagining moments like this ... stealing peeks at the maids bending to scrub floors, or catching the flash of ankle when a girl climbed the stairs ... but never had he seen anything so unguarded, so utterly abandoned. Daisy, the sharp-tongued, tireless Daisy who scolded him from dawn till dusk, was touching herself on the royal bed like a creature lost to some private rapture. His heart hammered against his ribs. Heat flooded his own body, sudden and fierce. He told himself he should call for help – fetch a maid, or the steward, or anyone – but his feet carried him forward instead.

“Daisy,” he said hoarsely, “are you ... all right?”

She did not seem to hear him. Her fingers moved in slow, circling strokes over the wet fabric. Her hips lifted off the mattress in tiny, helpless jerks. Another moan spilled from her throat, this one edged with need.

Dominic edged closer still. The bed loomed large now, its carved posts gleaming in the firelight. He could smell her: clean soap from the morning’s wash, the faint lavender she kept tucked in her apron pocket, and beneath it all the warm, musky scent of her arousal. It made his head swim.

He leaned one hand on the mattress to steady himself, meaning only to get a closer look, to understand what madness had taken her.

The moment his palm touched the linen, the spell pounced.

It was like plunging into sun-warmed honey. Pleasure surged up his arm, raced down his spine, settled throbbing between his legs. His cock, which had already begun to stir at the sight of her, swelled abruptly against the confines of his breeches, straining, curving upward in eager demand. His breath punched out of him in a startled groan.