James Killoran Quotes

“And now, dear Emma, I'll show you just what you have to be wary of," he said, and his head moved down, blotting out the light.
This was no slow, sensuous caress of mouth and lip. This was no chaste salute, nor was it the wet awkwardness of an untried boy or a randy old man. He opened his mouth over hers and kissed her, using his tongue, his teeth, and all the clever weapons he had in his arsenal.
She told herself she was being kissed by a practiced rake. She told herself it meant nothing, it was a trick, an act, a small skill that anyone could acquire. She told herself that as her body trembled and melted beneath him, as her mouth opened to his skillful insistence. She told herself it meant absolutely nothing as his tongue pushed into her mouth, and the moan that came from deep inside her had to be one of displeasure, didn't it?
It wasn't one kiss, it was twenty, it was a long series of unending kisses, leading one into another, so that she barely had time to begin to regain her sanity when he stripped it away once more. He kissed her eyelids, the side of her mouth, the beating pulse at the base of her neck. He kissed her nose and her chin, he bit her earlobe, and then he covered her mouth once more, kissing her with a devastating thoroughness that had her damp and trembling in his arms.
His hands were on her petticoats, slowly drawing them up her long legs, and her hips cradled him. He was hard against her, she belatedly recognized that fact, and the knowledge panicked her.e wanted her, his body wanted to claim hers, and there was no way she could stop him. No way, God help her, that she wanted to stop him.
He broke the kiss, rising up over her as she lay on the bed, staring down at her with a hooded expression in his eyes. His mouth was wet from hers, and his breathing was slightly labored. It would have been the only sign of his arousal, had it not been for the heat pressing against her hips.
"Do you want me, Emma?" he murmured, his voice low and insistent. "You don't have to say a word. Just put your mouth against mine."
Oh, God, she did want him, as terrifying as that notion was. She wanted to touch him, to feel his skin against hers, and she felt a dark burning deep inside her that she knew only he could assuage. She wanted his mouth, she wanted his heart, she wanted his soul.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He was trying to rape me."
Again that long, assessing, intimate look. "I can sympathize with the temptation," he said, half to himself.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“For one thing, she was quite astonishingly beautiful. Not at all in the common style, she was possessed of a thick mane of impossibly flame-colored hair, a tall, lush body of dangerous voluptuousness, and the warm, honey-colored eyes of a complete innocent. That red hair called to him, a siren lure, but he assumed it was only nostalgia and misplaced sentiment. Not that he'd ever been known to possess those two qualities.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“She backed away from him, staring at his black-and-white elegance with a kind of numb contempt. "Forgive me," she said in a husky voice. "I didn't mean..."
His smile was wintry sweet. "You're very pretty, child," he said, reaching out with one of his slender, strong hands, and brushing it against her cheek. She jerked, but he merely smiled at her reaction, and ran his fingertips over her soft lips. "If you just sit in the taproom with your magnificent eyes filled with tears, I'm certain you'll find someone to take care of you." He glanced down at her. "You might, however, endeavor to wash some of the blood off your hands. It might put a man's appetite off a bit."
She tried to pull back from him, but he was surprisingly fast and surprisingly strong for such an indolent-looking creature, and she found her wrist caught tightly in one of his deceptively pale hands. "Then again," he murmured, leaning closer, "it does seem to whet mine." He was dangerously, hypnotically close, and she wondered dazedly what would happen if he moved closer still.
"Killoran!" A young man stood in the doorway, his body radiating outrage and horror.
The dark man's smile was sudden, rueful, and oddly charming as he released her, released her hand, released her from his dark, entrapping gaze. "My conscience calls, sweeting," he murmured. And he walked away from her, clearly dismissing her from his mind.
Emma watched him go. She found she was trembling. She could still feel the heat and strength of his hand on her wrist, still feel the caress against her face.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Being Irish, he was also possessed of a certain lethal charm, a ruined estate somewhere back in Ireland, and eyes the color of Lady Winnimere's world-famous emeralds. Add to that an almost sinful beauty of face framed by black curls, a tall, graceful body, and quite the most elegant hands in all of London, and Killoran, who disdained to use his title, was indeed a dangerously attractive member of society.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“How dare you!" she shrieked, unaware of the silent young man standing in the shadows, staring at her. "Threatening me! You coldhearted bastard, I could have any number of men call you out for the insult."
"I doubt it," he drawled, feeling wicked enough to goad her. "I'm quite deadly in a duel, and most of your paramours know it. You're not worth dying for, my dear, as neither of us is certain you have any honor to save.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“She sat up again, horror filling her as the memory came flooding back. "Oh, no," she said out loud, quite distinctly.
And out of the darkness his voice, the low, cool drawl with the faint trace of a lilt, said, "Oh, yes."
Emma slid her legs around, pulling her feet on the thick French carpet. Her dress was tumbling down around her shoulders, and she knew whom to thank for that service. "You," she said, not bothering to disguise the horror in her voice.
"Me," he agreed. "Come to your rescue once more, my sweet.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Her courage almost failed her. He stood watching her, silent, still, as she came to him, and through the scudding clouds the moonlight shone down all around him. He was a man of moonlight, she thought fancifully. Cold and silvered, a creature of the night and shadows. And she was putting herself at his mercy, though she sincerely doubted he was possessed of that particular commodity.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He had moved closer to the fire and was turning his laced sleeves back when he saw her.
Her red hair was a blaze across the white ermine lap throw in which she was wrapped. She was sound asleep, lying on the settee, and he could see the pinched white misery of her face, the paleness of her lips, the faint spattering of freckles against her skin. He wondered if he could redden those lips.
Would she pay the logical price for rescue? She was in his house, in his power, and if she were even the slightest bit knowledgeable about the way the world worked, she'd know what was expected of her. She was probably lying naked beneath that soft white fur, expecting him.
A sudden rush of desire washed over him, and he examined it, surprised. It had been a very long time since the thought of a soft, sweet body had aroused his interest, not to mention another, more demanding part of him. But Emma Brown, with her murderous ways, her soft, shy mouth, and her astonishing bravery, had done just that.
He moved to stand over her. He considered unfastening his breeches and taking her there on the sofa. After all, she must be a doxy, despite that innocence. No one could look as she did, find herself in the situations she did untouched, and remain untouched.
He reached out a hand, tugging the fur down, hoping to see exposed skin. Instead he saw that miserable gray serge that he'd wanted to rip off her when he'd unfastened it earlier. She wasn't made for gray serge. She was made for silks and satins and furs. And the pristine whiteness of bed linen and smooth skin.
"What are you doing?"
His damnable guest, Nathaniel, appeared in the doorway, his brown hair ruffled from sleep, a glowering expression on his face.
"Admiring Miss Brown," Killoran said lazily, turning his gaze back to the sleeping woman.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Leave her alone, Killoran. I promised her you meant no ill will."
"And did she believe you?"
"Not for a moment."
Killoran looked back at her. "Wise girl," he murmured. "But for now, she's safe. I promise to keep my marauding hands off her fair young body. For the time being.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I don't suppose you care to enlighten me as to who you are?"
"Do you really care?"
He smiled then. "No."
"I thought not. Miss Brown will do."
"On the contrary- 'Miss Brown' will not do at all. I refuse to have someone living under my protection with such a tedious name. 'Emma' will suffice. You seem rather like an Emma, despite your exotic appearance. There's something definitely well ordered about the name Emma. Calm and reasonable, warmhearted and generous."
"You think I'm calm and reasonable?" She was astounded. While that sounded a bit more flattering than she tended to view herself, he'd painted a fairly accurate picture of the real Emma. Well ordered, sensible, kind, and serene, despite the storms that surrounded her. But how could he possibly know that?”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Make certain you tell them you are not my sister."
"Your sister? Why should anyone believe such an absurdity?" she said hotly, shaken by the very notion.
He touched her then. His elegant, pale hand reached out and touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. He looked at her carefully, his dark green eyes revealing only cursory interest. "I cannot imagine," he said after a moment.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He has a very strong sense of beauty, he has. You're to dress entirely in black and white and silver."
"Why?"
"Ask him yourself, miss. He'll be here in a minute."
"He certainly won't!" Emma cried, leaping for the black dress and pulling it over her head, slapping away Mrs. Rumson's clumsy attempts to assist her. The gown was barely around her shoulders when the door opened, without so much as a knock. Beneath the yards of filmy material, Emma allowed herself a quiet snarl.
"Arguing with Mrs. Rumson again, my angel?"
Emma yanked the gown down, half hoping it would rip. It didn't, and the clinging black silk gauze settled around her curves perfectly. "I'm not used to dressing in front of an audience," she said sternly.
Killoran had already availed himself of the most comfortable chair and seemed prepared to enjoy himself. "Accustom yourself, Emma," he said. "It is quite the fashion. Great beauties have their cicisbeis to guide their choices of jewelry and maquillage. Think of me as merely a servant to your exquisite loveliness."
She scowled. "I am not a great beauty," she said, advancing on him as Mrs. Rumson struggled behind her, trying to fasten the myriad of tiny black buttons. "I don't wear maquillage, and I have no jewelry."
She halted, her anger carrying her so far and no farther. She was already dangerously close to him, and he simply looked up at her, that cool, assessing expression on his face. He said nothing for a long moment, merely let his eyelids droop as he surveyed the length of her.
"Perhaps you're right," he said finally. "You are no common beauty. You are, however, quite... magnificent." There was an undercurrent of heat in his words that terrified her, but a moment later it had vanished, and he was leaning back, watching her with detached interest.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I'm not your sister."
He was still touching her breasts. The dark smile that lit his face was far from reassuring. He leaned closer, so close she could sense the warmth of his breath against her parted lips, and she felt herself weaken. If the wall weren't at her back, she would have been unable to stand. As it was, she held herself very still, not daring to breathe, aware only of his dark green eyes staring into hers, his breath on her mouth, his hands on her breasts.
"Remember that," he whispered, so close, so desperately close.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He could have broken the man's neck with little difficulty, and it had taken a portion of his legendary self-control to keep from giving in to the impulse. Particularly when the cold, killing rage that had sustained him for ten long years had suddenly burned white-hot at the sight of his enemy mauling Emma.
Perhaps that was what was troubling him. He'd ruthlessly stripped himself of all weakness, all emotion, anticipating little from this life except a passably entertaining evening and the bloody death of Jasper Darnley. And yet, suddenly, desires were churning inside him, stronger than he'd felt in years. He didn't like it.
Emma didn't like it either, he thought absently. He had felt her animosity, hot, intense, almost sexual, radiating out at him during the ride home. It had been very... arousing. That, and the memory of her face at the opera, eyes shining with delight. He'd wanted to reach for her, put his hands on her, and pull her against him, to touch her and wipe out the touch of Darnley's fat-fingered hands. She'd have fought him, of course, and he had yet to find the struggles of an unwilling woman to be the slightest bit entertaining.
But the interest lay in how long it would take him to make her cease struggling. What kind of sounds would she make when he pulled the black silk down to her waist and freed her breasts from the soft chemise he'd bought her? What kind of sounds would she make when he pushed her down on the bed upstairs and drove into her? Would she be easy to pleasure? Or would she be shy, wary, making him seduce her oh, so carefully?”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Am I considered a virtuous young lady?"
He surveyed her thoughtfully. The stark black of her dress molded to her lush form, and the neckline, though demure by Lady Barbara's standards, was scandalously low for a proper young lady. Her gorgeous hair hung down her back, and her mouth was soft, damp, abominably kissable.
There were also her eyes. Honey-brown, staring up at him with an unassailable innocence that only a complete fool would miss.
But then, how many people would their time looking in her eyes when there were so many other delectable attributes to gaze upon? "Not likely," he said. "Anyone who spends time in my presence is tainted." He advanced on her slowly, giving her time to run.
She didn't, but she wanted to. He could see the faint startled reflex in her eyes, the momentary flash of panic. But she held firm, tilting her chin up with just a trace of defiance. Poor child. Little did she know that her defiance enchanted him as much as her panic.
He fastened the pearls around her neck, their rich luster luminous against her skin. He resisted the temptation to stroke her bruised flesh, the need to touch his mouth to that abrasion. He resisted the impulse to turn away from her, lock himself in his study, and immerse himself in brandy.
He stepped back, a deceptive half smile on his face. "Lovely," he said.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“He reached out his hand and moved her heavy mane of hair away from her neck, stroking her, and he shifted his chair closer, so that his leg pressed against hers through the heavy layers of black silk. His fingers slid lower, brushing against the neckline of her dress, drifting against the swell of breasts.
"Stop it," she hissed, trying to keep all expression from her face. "What will people think?"
"Exactly what I want them to think, my pet," he said.
She tried to scoot her chair away from him, but beneath the flow of her skirts, he'd managed to hook one foot around her chair leg, effectively trapping her against him. In the distance the soprano screeched, the accompanist pounded, and Emma felt uncharacteristically close to tears.
"You said you were doing it for Darnley," she shot back. "He isn't even here."
"But he'll be well informed." He slid his hand up her neck and caught her chin. The strength in those long, pale fingers was palpable, but he wasn't hurting her. Shaming her, arousing her, tormenting her. But there was no brute force in his touch.
In a way, that almost made it worse, Emma thought. Cruelty, brutality, pain could be dealt with, shut out, endured. They were straightforward, something you could fight. But the velvet caress, the banked glance, the knowledge that it was all an elaborate game and she was nothing more than a convenient pawn, a toy to be moved back and forth on the chessboard, made the situation unbearable.
She couldn't help it. A stifled murmur of misery escaped her before she could stop it, and Killoran suddenly stilled. His fingers still cupped her chin, but they were no longer stroking her. He simply stared at her, and for once there was no mockery, no wickedness, in his dark green eyes. He stared at her as if seeing for the first time, and if she didn't know better, she would have thought it was his conscience making a belated appearance.
And then the moment passed, so swiftly it might have never existed. He leaned forward and put his mouth against the swell of her breast. His hand caught hers, holding her there, and her eyes fluttered closed as she felt the shocking caress. He used his tongue.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Killoran strolled into the darkness, paused before her locked door, and casually considered his alternatives. He could knock. He could leave her alone. The sanest course would be to dismiss her from his mind, leave her alone for the night. But he'd never prided himself on his sanity. It was a vastly overrated commodity.
And then he kicked the door open, splintering the wood with the force of his blow.

He filled the doorway to her bedroom. The broken doorway, Emma amended, staring at him. She kept forgetting how very tall he was. How intimidating. Despite his not being the slightest bit bulky, there was a lean and deadly power to his body, one that disturbed her far more than brute mass.
And then, belatedly, she realized how little she was wearing. She'd torn off the ruined black dress and now stood in only her petticoats. The bowl of water on the dresser in front of her was dark with the blood she'd been washing from her skin. The water had soaked through the fine lawn underclothing, molding it to her flesh, and she felt half naked.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“I won't tell you."
Killoran sighed wearily. "Of course you will, my angel," he said in a deceptively pleasant voice. "I have any number of ways of discovering that which I desire to know. I can do it nicely." He'd come closer, too close, and his hand caught hers, his long fingers stroking her palm, slowly, insistently, cleverly. "I can touch you in ways that you can't even imagine." His voice was low, heated, and she felt a disturbing, answering shimmer deep inside. "I can take your darkest secrets, I can take anything I want from you, and you'd be willing, eager, to give me. Everything."
For a moment she was unable to speak. Her pulse leapt in her throat, and she knew he could feel it, pounding beneath her pale skin. "You underestimate me," she said in a hushed voice, struggling against the hypnotic effect he had on her.
His smile was small, cynical, and heartbreaking. "No, my love. I know you very well indeed. Better, perhaps, than you know yourself. You want me to let go of your hand, don't you?"
"Yes," she said hoarsely.
"You want me to go away and leave you alone?"
"Yes."
His other arm slid around her waist as he bent over her. "You want me to kiss you, don't you?"
"Yes," she whispered, helpless, angry. Angry at herself, for making no effort to escape. Angry at him, for making her want him.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“So you're entirely protected from my random lusts."
"Random lusts?"
"I usually have more control in these matters. You do seem to have a habit of affecting me strangely." His cool tone was entirely deceptive. His body was hot and hard against hers, and she could feel the tension running through him. Odd, to realize that it was somehow she who had made him tense.
"I'm sorry," she said, staring up at him.
"Oh, don't be." He moved his head toward hers, and she had the strange notion that he was going to kiss her. "At least it breaks my boredom.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“You're sinfully handsome, women everywhere fall at your feet, you have a beautiful house, friends, companions, anything you might desire. Surely you could be happy...?"
For a moment there was real humor in his dark green eyes. "Sinfully handsome, Emma? Women fall at my feet? Then why, pray tell, aren't you there?"
"I'm not interested in being one of your conquests."
"I don't conquer women, Emma," he said in a low, sinuous voice. "I seduce them. Charm them into doing exactly what I want them to do. Does that surprise you, that I would hold that much charm?"
She looked up at him. Indeed, she had no choice- he was still holding her close against his body, and she could either look at him or close her eyes. She wasn't sure which was more dangerous.
"No," she said. "It doesn't surprise me."
"Then why haven't you succumbed yet?"
"I'm stronger than most women."
"So you are," he agreed. "But you're no match for me."
She hadn't realized he'd been moving her slowly, carefully, backward, until her body came up against the side of the high bed. She halted in sudden panic, but it was too late. He carried her down onto it, his body covering hers, his weight warm and solid.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“She longed for him. He knew it, much as it astounded him. Not that he was unused to being sought after by women. He'd been blessed with a certain combination of form and face which seemed to draw both women and men to him, even as they fought against the pull.
But Emma wasn't like other women. She was too determined, too sensible to fall for his clever ploys. But she looked at him with her heart in her eyes, and he knew that he'd found the one thing he couldn't resist. A taste of innocence, after a lifetime of jaded pleasures.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“Yes," she said simply, waiting for him. And she held out her hands to him. They trembled slightly; she couldn't help it. He could turn his back on her, walk away, and there'd be nothing she could do. All she could do was offer herself, and wait.
The mask closed down over his face once more, and she felt despair and sorrow fill her. The pain, the need, were gone. Instead he looked at her from unreadable eyes, and his thin mouth curved in a mocking smile. "So be it," he murmured. "Far be it from me to deny a lady pleasure."
She dropped her hands , as if they burned but it was too late. He caught them, his long, strong white fingers wrapping around them. "It will be pleasure, you know," he continued, his voice low and mesmerizing.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord

“You're probably right," he whispered.
"About what?"
He looked up at him and managed a brief, farewell smile. "I rather think Emma did run off with my heart," he confessed.”
― Anne Stuart, To Love a Dark Lord