Chapter Seven

 

He needed a wife. Hah. Hugo stared at the pieces won and lost in their close-run game. Was she putting herself forward to fill the position? Somehow he didn’t think so. Was that why he’d reacted so badly? Goddamn it. He didn’t want a wife.

But he did want Mrs. Graham.

He wanted her on a most carnal level. Nay. While her voluptuous body called to him, the intelligence lurking deep in those mysterious dark blue eyes had him fascinated. Intelligence mixed with wariness. A strange and heady combination.

He didn’t fault Mrs. Graham for her need for privacy, but her caution ran deeper than mere discretion. The hunted quality to her gaze when he questioned her too closely gave her away. It was as if she expected a cage door to slam shut with her on the wrong side of the bars.

Everything in him wanted to drive out the fear and leave the sparkle only hinted at when one of those rare smiles curved her lips. Fool. Making more of what ailed him than simple physical attraction. He hadn’t been with a woman of Mrs. Graham’s caliber in a very long time, and beneath her cool demeanor he sensed a smoldering heat. Like a charcoal burner’s kiln, no matter how cool she seemed on the outside, fires hotter than Hades burned within.

Jevens entered with the brandy and a disapproving expression. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“No, thank you.” Aware of the tremble in his hand, he waited for the butler to withdraw before pouring a glass of steadying heat. He took a long slow pull and rubbed absently at his thigh. He flexed his knee a couple of times, seeking ease from the nagging pain. It felt worse than ever—hell, it looked worse. He’d probably have to see the bloody surgeon in London after all.

At the sound of wheels on gravel, he stared at the window as if he could see beyond his reflection to her upright figure in the gig and her calm expression beneath the brim of her plain bonnet.

It wasn’t appropriate, but damn he adored her smile, the way her cheeks grew rounder, like succulent peaches. His own lips curved in response to the image. He would like to hear her really laugh. Not that he gave anyone much cause for laughter. Nor should he, if he remained true to his vow. Beyond anything, he must respect her loyalty to a husband who had given his life for his country. A pang of envy twisted in his chest. Envy for a dead man?

Possibly. He just wished he knew what put the fear in her eyes. Something from her past? This brother perhaps? Whatever or whoever it was, it had driven the life he occasionally saw in her eyes into hiding.

He shook his head. She clearly did not need his help. He had gone against his better judgment in allowing her to remain at the Dower House, and it should be enough.

It wasn’t, dammit. He would get to the bottom of what troubled her, even if it meant hosting the damned village fête.

As for him, a simple case of lust for a bosom fulsome enough to fill his hands to overflowing and the thought of a pair of soft creamy thighs wrapped around his waist must be ignored. He shifted in his chair and forced his mind in other directions. Breaking through her barriers of reserve would require as much planning as a military strategy. It would take time.

His thigh throbbed and burned. The doctor said the leg needed time to heal. He needed time to discover what had Mrs. Graham looking over her shoulder. He poured a snifter of brandy and sank deeper into the cushions.

He didn’t have much money, but he certainly had plenty of time.

 

• • •

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Graham.”

Startled, Lucinda straightened from her task of cutting roses to take indoors.

Booted and carrying a whip, Lord Wanstead stood the other side of her hedge. Her pulse faltered and skipped in the stupidest way. She frowned. “I did not hear you ride up.” Not a warm greeting by any means. But then she didn’t feel particularly friendly. She felt skittish, nervous, out of breath.

He grimaced. “I drove my carriage.” He slapped his whip against his thigh.

“Was there something I can do for you, my lord?”

“Yes,” he said. “It is a fine morning, and I have something to show you.”

Her mouth fell open. “You do?”

He grinned like a boy caught with his hand in the biscuit barrel. “I want to show you the field. For the fête.”

The glimmer in his eyes started a hum along her veins and flooded her skin with very pleasant warmth. The very real effort she made to quell the sensation did not prevail.

She shook her head. “Far better you take Reverend Postlethwaite, my lord.”

The pleased expression faded. “My hosting the fête was your suggestion.”

“The vicar is in charge of the committee.”

“I would appreciate your endorsement for my idea,” he said with a gravity she did not quite trust. “You see, I remembered that my grandfather always used the bottom field near the stream when he hosted the fête.”

So this was how he had contrived to avoid opening his home to his neighbors. “I see.”

He looked rather deflated at her grudging tone. “It’s a good spot. Not so far for the villagers to walk, you see. Take a look before turning up your nose.”

But if she started gallivanting around the countryside with his lordship, people were sure to talk. She had already risked far too much by offering to help his housekeeper. “I have many matters requiring my attention today.”

“I know. You have your committee meeting this afternoon. You will want to discuss my suggestion with them.”

Dash it. Did he have an answer for everything? “But Sophia . . .”

Annie stuck her head out of the back door, caught sight of his lordship, and turned as red as a beetroot. “My lord,” she gasped and ducked an awkward curtsey, her rounded belly making it impossible to do much more than bend her neck. “I heard talking and wondered who was out here. I’m sorry if I interrupted.”

“Mrs. Dunning, is it not?” Lord Wanstead asked.

Annie beamed. “Yes, my lord.”

“Are you able to care for Miss Sophia for an hour or two? Mrs. Graham and I have some business to conduct.”

Lucinda stared at him. The arrogant rogue. She was supposed to be a respectable widow, not some flighty debutante out driving in Hyde Park. She opened her mouth to refuse.

“Yes, my lord,” Annie said. “You go, Mrs. Graham. I’ll take Sophia to the village; she can play with the twins.”

Dash it all, would no one stand up to him? “I have to attend the meeting this afternoon.”

“Well, there you are then,” Annie said. “I will take care of the little one, as we arranged, and his lordship can drop you off at the vicarage.”

Sophia squeezed past Annie. “Twins?” she said with a brilliant smile.

Lucinda gave a sigh of exasperation. They were all against her. How could she deny a look like that on a child’s face? “Very well. I will get my shawl.” She hurried inside, giving Annie instructions as she went.

Back outside on the front doorstep, she halted at the sight of a matched pair of ebony horses and a high-perch phaeton in the lane.

“Oh, my,” she breathed.

Lord Wanstead chivied her forward. “They arrived last night.” He patted one of the shining flanks.

They were magnificent specimens with glossy coats and deep chests. “They are beautiful. I had no idea you owned such fine animals. You are a good judge of horseflesh, my lord.”

He gave her a sharp stare. “Apparently so are you, Mrs. Graham. Since I knew Albert couldn’t care for them at his time of life, I sent them to my hunting box during my absence.”

This bear seemed to lack teeth, or claws, or whatever they used to rip things apart. At least when it came to those he cared about. “How thoughtful of you, my lord.”

He frowned. “Common sense.”

Kindness, even if he wouldn’t admit it. The more she got to know him, the more she realized the gruff exterior hid a gentle soul. “If we are going to look at the grounds and be back in time for the meeting, we must make haste.”

The teasing glance that had so unnerved her on Wednesday rested once more on her face. “Allow me to assist you.”

While she guessed his intent, she didn’t quite believe he could lift her so high until she took flight with his hands around her waist. It felt wonderfully feminine. As she let her hands rest on those broad, broad shoulders and felt the sinew and muscle ripple beneath her fingers, she momentarily forgot the past, the mistakes, the pain. She smiled down at him.

He winked, and she felt herself blush like a schoolgirl.

As he set her on the box, a grimace of pain tightened his lips. She followed his progress around the carriage with narrowed eyes. He definitely hadn’t been drinking. She would have smelled the spirits on his breath. Even so, an odd jerkiness interrupted the flow of his natural athletic grace. A well-disguised limp? One that had worsened since his arrival? He was proud enough to hide the effects of his wound.

He climbed up beside her and took up the reins.

“Does your injury still bother you?” she asked.

A startled expression crossed his face. He busied himself turning the carriage in the lane and urging the horses out at a smart clip. He made the whole exercise look effortless. Having watched Geoffrey learn to handle the ribbons and having once tried her own hand at it, she could only admire his skill.

The carriage turned onto the road bounded by the Grange wall on one side and a hedgerow on the other and headed toward Blendon. As they bowled along, she fought to ignore his strongly muscled thigh alongside hers, his broad shoulders taking up too much room, and the lemony scent of his soap that scrambled the thoughts in her brain and turned her insides to warm porridge.

“Does it bother you?” she asked again, for something to say as a distraction from those unruly sensations. “Your wound?”

He shrugged. “It gives me a bit of trouble on wet days,” he said. “And when I’ve been sitting too long.”

And no doubt gave him a twinge when he lifted someone the size of a pony, even if he was too polite to say so. Was the wound the reason he staggered occasionally? Not the brandy? “Should you seek the advice of a doctor?”

“A rather personal question, Mrs. Graham.” The chill was back in his gaze.

She clutched her reticule tighter. “It is altogether too personal to show up at a single woman’s house and take her gallivanting around the countryside in what I’ve heard young men in London call a lady-killer. However, here we are.”

“Do you know much about what young men in London say?”

There it was again, the careful probing. Once more he had her on the defensive, and in order to avoid her question to boot.

“Even those in the north have heard tales of the great metropolis.” Her brothers had talked of little else as they chased their manhood.

“Really. From whom?”

“My husband.”

He stared straight ahead, lips pressed together in a thin straight line.

Reminding him of her widowed state served like check and mate, apparently. She tucked that knowledge away and leaned back against the well-sprung seat, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and inhaling air scented by new-mown hay and sweet clover. The light breeze stirred the profusion of Queen Anne’s lace growing along the verge. Blackbirds and sparrows serenaded from the hedgerows.

He turned off the main road and entered what appeared to be a cart track. The brambles reached out to scrape the paintwork on each side of the carriage while an arch of beech filtered golden rays onto the shady track.

“How pretty,” she said. “Where does it lead?”

“You’ll see.”

Back to the gruff answers. Better that than probing questions. “No doubt. And yet I would like to have some idea of where I am headed.”

“Why?”

“You said it wasn’t far from the village, and yet we seem to have turned in the other direction.”

“Suspicious and bossy,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said not only are you suspicious, you also like to rule the roost.” He sent her a sidelong glance as if to test her reaction, but the twinkle in his eyes took the sting from his words.

The horses halted at a dead end bounded by trees on three sides before she could think of a suitable retort. Somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of running water.

“This is as far as we can go in the carriage,” he said. “The rest of the way will be on foot.”

She grabbed on to his last words the way Sophia reached for a biscuit. “I am sure the ground is far too damp for walking.”

“Nonsense.” He sounded altogether too smug, and she glared at him as he helped her down. Although he didn’t hold her longer than was needed to set her on her feet, on his release the heat from his hands lingered on flesh that once crawled at the feel of a man’s hand, yet now seemed to regret the loss. A shockingly pleasurable sensation and one she must not notice.

He fished around under the seat, producing a hamper and what looked like a rolled-up tent.

She frowned. “What is this, sir?”

“I would hate for you to miss your lunch.”

He cast her an innocent look. Having grown up with four brothers, it didn’t fool her one little bit. For all her attempts at distance, he was clearly as aware of her reactions to him as she was herself and had decided to push her to the limit.

She repressed the urge to laugh at his bold maneuver. “The ground is far too damp for eating out of doors.”

He waved the bundle in his other hand. “Groundsheet and blanket.” Those wicked green sparkles were dancing in his eyes again. He was so sure he’d won. “A trick I learned in Spain. Sleeping on bare ground leaves one stiff and sore by morning.”

She shuddered. “I can imagine.”

He laughed. “Most of the time we billeted with the townsfolk.”

“Yes, my b—Tom wrote to me about how bad those billets were, especially if the French used them first.”

He did not seem to notice her slip of the tongue. “Wrote to you, did he? Then you know a good deal more about it than most people in England. They seem to think it is all a glorious adventure.”

“I have no such illusions.”

A breath of disgust hissed through his teeth. “Damn my runaway tongue.”

He looked so contrite, almost miserable, that she couldn’t help but nod.

He held out his hand. “Would you care to take my arm?” The return to formality chilled her, as if the sun had disappeared behind one of the lazy clouds drifting across the blue sky. While her mind told her to welcome it, a tiny ache squeezed her chest. This had to stop. No matter how much she might wish for things to be different, she had nothing to offer this man, or any other.

“I can manage, thank you.” She followed his broad back over verge and stile and along a path skirting a copse of hazel and birch.

The trees ended at an open space which in her younger and fanciful days she might have labeled magical. Bounded on one side by a babbling brook and shielded from the lane by the stand of trees, an expanse of emerald grass spread before them like a carpet. A small wooden bridge with a basket-weave handrail led across the stream to a Romanesque-looking summerhouse.

“Oh, yes,” she said, circling. “This is perfect. We could set up the booths there against the trees. Over there we could have games—you know, three-legged race, egg and spoon, that sort of thing for the children.”

Hearing his sharp intake of breath and a curse, she turned to look at him and was shocked by the pain in his expression.

“I’m sorry. Here I am babbling on, and your leg is hurting you. You should have let me carry some of that stuff.”

“Stuff?” He looked blank for a moment and then placed the hamper and the bundle on the ground. He wiped a hand across his eyes as if to clear his vision. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

He must have wrenched his leg again. Since he seemed disinclined to discuss his distress, she could only ignore it. “I was simply waxing poetical about the beauty of this spot and deciding where we ought to set up the various booths and events.”

“Peddle can set up over there,” he said, his face assuming its normal stern lines. “Lots of shade and far enough from the water that no one will fall in.”

“We would need an awning,” she said, “in the event of rain. We wouldn’t want water in the ale.”

The strain around his mouth disappeared. “No, indeed.” He looked at the river speculatively. “And if it is hot, perhaps some of the young’uns might want to bathe.” His eyes widened and he shook his head. “No. Probably not a good idea.”

He was thinking about what they would wear, she just knew it. She wanted to laugh. The sound sat in her chest like a bubble waiting to burst. She refused to set it free. “I agree. But what we might do is have a rope pull from bank to bank. How about the Grange against the Hall.”

“I suppose so,” he said, looking dubious. “I doubt if Jevens or old Albert would be up to it, but Trent and Brown might, and perhaps Drabet now he’s working in the stable.”

So that’s how he’d solved the problems of the little family at Mile Lane. She put her head on one side and pretended to measure him with her gaze. “A man of your size would probably make a whole team by yourself.”

“Hey,” he said with a short laugh. “No mocking folks who didn’t have the sense to stop growing.”

“But you are right,” she went on, “Mr. Brown and Trent would make a good team.”

Lucinda strolled around the perimeter, pointing out the suitability of this spot and that. Lord Wanstead seemed content to wander by her side. He bent over and plucked a stem of grass, placed it between his thumbs, and blew. It made a loud and rather rude noise.

“Not exactly music,” she said.

He did it again, longer and louder, and then to the rhythm of reveille, his cheeks puffing out in the most ridiculous way.

The giggle she had repressed burst free and once she started laughing, she couldn’t stop. She pressed her hands over her ears. “No more. If you don’t cease this instant, I will . . .”

He dropped his hands and looked at her hopefully, rather like an overgrown puppy. “Eat lunch?”

As if joining the plot, her stomach gave a little gurgle. She clutched a hand to her waist. “Lunch it is.”

“Thank God,” he said fervently. “I was not looking forward to Mrs. Hobb’s face if I returned to the house with nothing eaten.”

Lucinda sobered. Would everyone in the village know about this picnic?

“We’ll eat under the oak tree. The grass seems a little less damp,” Lord Wanstead said. He glanced back over his shoulder. “That is, unless you prefer another spot?”

“The tree is fine,” she said.

He spread the canvas and blanket, set the hamper in one corner, and gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Please, be seated.”

Lucinda knelt at one edge. Picnicking in the woods with a bachelor could cause a scandal of the worst sort in such a small village, and yet as a widow, her reputation wouldn’t suffer like that of an unmarried miss. If only she were really a widow.

He dropped down beside her and opened the lid of the basket. “What do we have here, I wonder?” He poked around. “Wine. Bread and cheese and cold roast beef. A couple of pasties. Some pickles. And, yes, apples and raisins.”

The hamper seemed bottomless. Mrs. Hobb wasn’t much with accounting, but as a cook she excelled. “She must have thought you were getting up a party, not feeding two people.”

“Water,” he said, picking out a jug and setting it beside her. He lifted a bottle. “Wine?”

“Water for me, please.”

He opened the flagon. She dug out two sturdy pewter goblets and handed them over. He filled one and passed it back. It hovered inches from her chest, the bowl almost disappearing in his fist.

She reached for the stem.

Their fingers grazed. Bare skin instead of cotton gloves. A sensation like hot sparks skittered up her arm. She gasped, snatching her hand back as he let go.

The goblet dropped. He caught it before it landed, diamond-bright droplets flying. Dark blotches spread on the blanket between them.

Shadows swirled in the depths of his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Clumsy idiot, Denbigh’s scornful tones echoed in her ears. She steeled herself for Lord Wanstead’s anger.

“Damnation.”

She flinched.

He snatched up a napkin and dabbed at the damp spot. “Are you . . . Can I . . .”

He leaned forward, the white square of linen aimed at her lap, where pearly beads of moisture were sinking into the gray wool fabric.

“Oh,” she said, heat and cold shooting through her at the thought of him mopping her up. “No, really. It is quite all right.” She whisked the napkin from his hand and brushed the drops away.

He retrieved the goblet. “I really must apologize for being so awkward. Let me see if I can make a better job of it.”

The earl might not have her dandy husband’s exquisite address or his elegant wardrobe or incomparable good looks, but he had a warrior’s courage to accept responsibility for his deeds. A flame-like warmth danced in the pit of her stomach.

“There,” he said and held out the glass.

“Thank you.” She smiled.

For a moment he stared at the wine and then seemed to think better of it. He filled the other goblet with water.

“Let me pass you a roll and some beef,” Lucinda said, putting them on a plate and handing it to him.

“Thank you. I should have brought a tray.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He took a huge bite out of his roll, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. “A tray. A flat surface for the glasses. Then it wouldn’t have spilled.”

“No harm done, my lord. It was only water.”

His gaze dropped to the basket. “You are right. It could have been red wine.” He looked as if he wished it were red wine.

She bit into a meat pie. The golden crust melted in her mouth, the meat and potatoes spicy and with just the right amount of gravy to make the whole thing deliciously moist. She closed her eyes. “Mmmm.”

“That good, eh?”

Oh, God. He would think her disgustingly greedy. Most young ladies picked at their food. In the Armitage household, appreciation for a good meal had been demanded. She returned the pasty to her plate and raised her gaze to his face. “Excellent.”

He didn’t look revolted or nauseous. Quite the opposite. “They are good, aren’t they?” He sounded pleased. “I asked Mrs. Hobb to make them specially. May I have one?”

She passed one over, and he popped the whole thing in his mouth, nodding as he chewed. “Oh, yes. Just as I remembered. The best pasties in England.”

She opened her mouth to remark on those made by her mother’s cook but stopped herself just in time. Instead, she took another bite of pasty. “They are very good indeed.”

“Try the sliced ham. Home-cured.”

Shaved into the thinnest of slices, the ham did indeed look delicious. She spread pale yellow butter on the white crusty bread and added two slices of ham. She peeked into the basket. He leaned forward. “What do you want? Mustard or horseradish?”

“Oh, my,” she said. “You thought of everything. Horseradish, please.”

He handed her an earthenware jar. “Here you go.” He helped himself to ham.

They ate to the sounds of the brook splashing over rocks, birdsong, and rustling leaves. He devoured the food as if it might be his last meal, while it was all she could do to swallow, her heart felt so strangely full.

He picked up his glass and downed the water in two gulps. As his throat muscles convulsed above the snow-white linen, she could not help but notice the powerful neck, the shoulders a lion would envy, and the breadth of his chest in his skintight coat.

Her stomach rolled, long and slow, giving the sensation of falling from a great height. She forced herself to look at the scenery, the stand of birch, the glimpse of water beyond the green bank, yet even when he did not fill her vision, she was acutely aware of his nearness.

No, her mind warned. To encourage him was wrong. She was living a lie. She snatched up her goblet and held it between them like a shield, sipping the water to cool her fevered blood.

“Tell me, Mrs. Graham, did you have a happy childhood with picnics and such?” The deep voice sounded wistful.

Memories flooded into her mind. Picnics on the lawn at Armitage house had never been quiet affairs. There were always too many children. Nine to be exact. And most of them younger. Mother had always sat in the middle of the circle and made sure everyone ate every crumb until the children felt so full, they thought they might burst. Lucinda didn’t mind the quiet, but she did miss her parents and her sisters and brothers. Leaving her country home, where everyone was loved, no matter what their size or shape, had been a huge mistake. She realized it now, too late, but at least she had found her own little corner of England.

“Blissfully happy,” she said.

His eyes widened. “Blissful?”

She gazed across the clearing to avoid that piercing gaze. Had she said too much? Shown too much of her longing? And yet denying her family was one betrayal she could not endure. “Yes. Blissfully happy.” She gathered up the remaining bread rolls and put them in the basket.

“I envy you, then.”

She swung around to face him full on, suspecting sarcasm. “You?”

“It seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?” He sighed.

“Were you not happy as a child?”

“I wasn’t unhappy, I suppose.” He frowned, the bottle of wine paused above the basket. “There were some good times. I think my father and I were a little too much alike.” He jammed the bottle into the hamper.

“Oh. That’s just like . . .” She almost said Jonathon’s name, “my brother,” she finished. “But Mother kept the peace.”

“Are you like your mother?”

“Do you mean good at keeping the peace?” She recalled Denbigh and her too frequent hot words. “No.” Her shoulders tightened at the memory. She searched for a new topic, anything not to talk about her past. “What made you decide to join the army?”

A slight wince crossed his features. “It’s a long story. What about your husband? Did he like army life? How could he bear to leave you?”

Back to her again. She tried to ignore the way his gaze searched her face or the curl of dark silky hair on his collar, and concentrated on her answer. “A soldier must go where he is ordered, my lord.”

“Did he know about the child before he left?”

“No. She came as a complete surprise.” She smiled. “But a very welcome one.”

“I can only wonder at your courage, raising a child alone.” His voice deepened to a seductive murmur that zinged through her veins and vibrated deep in her chest. Warmth spread through her limbs, like the tendrils of a fast-growing vine in spring, unfurling in hot little bursts.

“I do my best.” The tremble in her voice further destroyed her composure.

“I’m surprised you don’t return to the bosom of your blissful family.”

Her mouth dried. She swallowed. “Things have changed.”

“Was it an easy birth?” he asked.

Startled, she stared at him.

“Your child. Did you have a difficult time?”

Good Lord, what else would he ask? How to answer? “While it really isn’t a suitable topic of conversation, I can say that Sophia’s arrival was unexpectedly swift.”

“You are fortunate indeed.” He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, relaxed, less intimidating, perhaps even vulnerable. Shadows and sunlight chased across his face with the sway of the branches above. The lines on his brow and bracketing his mouth eased. What caused the grim visage he presented to the world? The pain of his wound? In repose, he had the look of a man who had endured suffering too great for the human spirit to survive.

The urge to smooth away his frown, to kiss those unsmiling lips, filled her with longing. He was not for her. Another woman would have the joy of bringing him happiness. If he ever let anyone through that gruff barricade. She traced his strong features with her gaze: his mobile mouth, the noble nose that fit his face perfectly, the intelligent brow. If she had met him before she met Denbigh . . . would life have taken a different course? Would she have seen this man’s solid worth against Denbigh’s glitter of dross?

Would he have paid her any attention with all the slender, elegant women in London? Honesty won out over dreams. No, he would not unless he also needed to marry a fortune.

He must have felt her staring, because he opened his eyes. Green fire danced in the gaze clashing with hers. Darkness warred with flickering heat, and fire won out. A faint smile curved his mouth, making him look younger and less careworn. He rolled toward her, propping himself on one elbow, his hard warrior’s body inches from her thigh and hip.

Conscious of her mouth’s sudden dryness, she licked her lips. Her heartbeat quickened. Warmth trickled through her veins from her head to her toes in slow languid heat. The air around her seemed to crackle. Life tingled through her body, as if she had awakened from a long sleep to find every muscle, every nerve humming.

Eyelids lowered, his gaze dropped to her lips. He leaned closer.

Move away, Lucinda.

His breath grazed her ear. A shiver ran down her spine. The delicious tremor stirred her heart and sent flutters of sweet ache pulsing in her core. A small cry sounded deep in her throat.

His dark head dipped and his lips grazed hers, warm, velvet soft, enticing.

The pounding of her heart, the sound of her shallow breathing filled with the scent of lemon and bay, drew her into his orbit. Every inch of her skin seemed to burn with a fire her instincts told her only he could quench. Her breasts tightened with the desire to press against his hard wall of chest. Her hands, at first braced against his shoulders, slipped around his neck, her fingers sliding through the silk of his hair.

Never had she felt such melting in her bones.

A warm hand cradled her nape, his mouth moving against hers, his tongue teasing, encouraging. She parted her lips. As his tongue entered her mouth, desire flared out of control. She turned into him and arched against him, gasping for breath, her heart fluttering wildly. She drank of his sweetness. His strength surrounded her like the walls of a castle. The thunder of his heart echoed her own and joined with it, until they seemed to beat as a single organ, one note, one cadence, one song. Softening the kiss, he stroked her cheek and then ran the hand down her throat and across her shoulder blades. Her very soul rejoiced.

The warm pressure of his hand moving in circles on her back mimicked the gentle strokes of his tongue, drowning her will and her conscious thought. The heel of his hand kneaded her ribs, his thumb grazing the underside of her breast.

She froze. A bucket of ice water could not have chilled her blood so fast.

He drew back, his gaze searching her face, at first puzzled and then hardening to bleak.

For once, words, her only defense, failed her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the firestorm of desire battling the fear of pain. In the strength of her want, she had all but forgotten her inadequacy. She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the blanket, to the remains of their feast. With swift jerky movements, she stacked the plates and placed the glasses back in the basket. Anything not to have to look at him, not to see the scorn in his eyes, not to plumb the depths of her humiliation.

 

• • •

 

Hugo pushed himself up to a sitting position and placed his goblet in the basket. He’d set out to win her trust and lost control. How the hell had that happened after all he knew about himself? He tossed the ham in the basket.

She’d looked so beautiful, her color high, her gaze mysterious, her lush breasts inches from his chest. The knowledge that beneath the full gray skirts lay mouthwatering soft, sweet flesh had driven him over the edge. Now she looked close to tears. Damn it to hell. Since when could he not control his baser urges? On campaigns, he’d gone months without even seeing a woman and hadn’t wanted to tup the first female across his path; now he was acting like a rutting beast. Men were animals, and he was worse, knowing the damage he could do.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I should not have—”

She cut him off with a wave of one dimpled hand. “It was a mistake. Let us forget all about it.”

Uncomfortable warmth heated the back of his neck. He felt like a schoolboy dismissed for some prank. She had been a willing participant. At least, in the beginning. He’d got a bit carried away, but she had responded to his kisses with enthusiasm.

For now, he would spare her blushes. Next time he would take things more slowly. Next time? The thought stirred his blood. There must not be a next time.

He quelled the urge to smash his fist into the tree.

He forced himself to his feet and helped her to hers. “What do you think?”

She glanced around the field and nodded. “Yes, my lord, it will do very well.”