A Valentine Wedding (20 page)

“So,” Alasdair invited. “Try her out.”

Emma looked along the ride. The roan raised her head and sniffed the wind. She shifted eagerly on the soft ground.

“Ventre à terrel”
Emma murmured.

“Go, Emma.”

She threw him a glance of pure mischief and gave the mare her head. They flew down the broad ride.

Alasdair waited, watching her critically. Then he shook his head in admiration. “By God, she can ride!” he muttered aloud. He nudged Phoenix in pursuit, and the black galloped flat out after the roan.

Emma heard Phoenix pounding the turf behind her. She leaned low over Swallow’s neck and whispered encouragement. The roan increased her speed. Emma laughed and glanced sideways at Alasdair. Phoenix had pulled up with them and his stride now matched the mare’s.

Alasdair grinned at her, his teeth flashing white, his eyes alight with his own exhilaration. They galloped side by side until Emma felt the mare beginning to tire. She drew rein and eased the horse into a canter and then a trot.

Alasdair reined in Phoenix immediately and they trotted together beneath the bare branches of oak and beech tree, enjoying the quiet, the sense of privacy,
after London’s noisy bustle. One couldn’t set foot outside one’s house without drawing remark.

Although it had been three years since she’d last been at Richmond, Emma recognized the ride Alasdair had chosen. It had always been one of their favorites in the old days because it was so rarely used. When Ned was around, the three of them would spend all day under these trees, sometimes without seeing another soul.

As she understood how very alone they were, their seclusion undisturbed by even the faint sounds of distant voices, she became aware of a slight tension building in the pit of her stomach. It was anticipation, she realized, a warm flush creeping over her face. She allowed Swallow to break into a canter, hoping the fresh wind would cool her cheeks and do something to tamp down the unbidden swirl of arousal that seemed to be taking charge of her body.

But the horse’s motion did nothing to help, quite the opposite.

“Hey, where to in such a hurry?” Alasdair rode up beside her.

“I think it’s going to come on to rain.” Emma offered the first thing that came into her head as excuse for that burst of speed. She kept her eyes on the track ahead.

Alasdair glanced up at the sky. “I believe you’re right,” he said, indicating the growing mass of black clouds. “It’s looking quite ominous up there. We’d better find shelter before the heavens open.” He turned his horse off the ride and into the trees.

Emma followed, glad of the diversion. Swallow didn’t seem to like trees. She edged through them with every expression of disgust, and it needed all Emma’s soft reassurances and firm hands on the reins
to coax her along the narrow aisle between two lines of poplars.

They broke from the trees just as the first drops of rain fell. A small grassy knoll lay ahead of them, crowned with a replica of a Greek temple.

Alasdair gestured with his whip. “We’ll shelter in there until it blows over.”

“If it blows over,” Emma said with a shiver as a gust of very cold wind pierced her jacket. “I didn’t think to bring a cloak.”

“It’ll be better out of the wind,” he said and cantered Phoenix up the hill.

The cold had certainly dampened her ardor, Emma reflected with a degree of grim relief as she followed.

Alasdair rode Phoenix around the temple to the shelter of a grove of trees. He dismounted and turned to Emma. “Dismount here and run into the temple. I’ll take care of the horses.” He raised his hands to grasp her waist, steadying her as she slid from the saddle.

Emma’s skin prickled anew and for a second their eyes met. There was no mistaking the pure flame of desire in Alasdair’s hooded green gaze, and Emma was flooded with a heady sense of relief that she was not suffering this disquieting arousal alone.

“Get inside,” Alasdair said, and there was a catch in his throat.

“I’ll take care of Swallow first.”

“No, you won’t.” He turned her around, his hands light on her shoulders. “Get out of the wind.” He attempted to sound jocular but that husky catch remained in his voice. He gave her a little push and lightly swung his riding whip against her rear. “Run along, Emma.”

Ordinarily Emma would have vigorously protested
this paternalistic dismissal, but she understood what Alasdair was trying to mask … understood it all too well. She left him without a word and hurried into the temple.

Alasdair blew out his breath in a noisy exhalation. It wasn’t going to be possible to keep up the game. He was hard as a rock, and all he’d done was brush her waist with his hands.

He turned to his horse, fervently hoping that the practical business of loosening the girths, knotting the reins, and tethering the animals would quieten his rampant flesh. It was an effort to keep his mind a blank while he performed these automatic tasks, but he was rather more comfortable by the time he was ready to join Emma in the temple.

He unstrapped a cylindrical leather box from the rear of his saddle, hoisted it over his shoulder, and raced for the shelter of the temple as the rain began in earnest.

Emma was standing between two pillars, looking out at the view, at the rain scudding across the flatter expanse of land beneath the knoll. She turned as Alasdair came in, her eyebrows lifting at the box. “What have you got?”

“Provisions,” he said, setting the leather box on a stone bench well within the portico and away from the driving rain. “I thought we might feel the need of fortification, so I have wine … cheese … cold chicken … bread.” He set each of these items on the bench as he named them.

Emma, who was distinctly hungry, came forward eagerly. This domestic little feast had somehow managed to sever the cord of sexual tension. “You brought glasses too,” she said in mock awe.

“And napkins, ma’am.” He flourished a white
damask square. “Pray be seated.” He gestured to the bench beside the food, and when she sat he arranged the napkin on her lap with all the courtly expertise of a waiter at the Pantheon.

Emma couldn’t help but laugh. The rain was drumming on the roof now and slicing inward between the pillars, but they were far enough inside to be dry, even though it was cold and cheerless. At least, she thought, it ought to have been cheerless, but with a glass of wine in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, she felt far from miserable.

Alasdair sat at the far end of the bench with the picnic arrayed between them and helped himself to bread and cheese. “So, what do you think of our French émigré, Monsieur Denis?” he inquired casually.

“What should I think of him?” Emma asked, wiping her fingers on her napkin, every nerve stretched, every muscle taut. Was his abrupt question a prelude to the truth?

“I don’t know. But you seem to enjoy his company.” Alasdair sipped his wine and regarded her over the lip of the glass.

“Is that a crime?”

“No. But he’s a fortune hunter.”

“I am aware,” she said dryly. “You needn’t fear, Alasdair, that I have an overly high view of my own personal attractions.”

“Fishing, Emma?” he asked softly, his eyes resting on her face with a good deal of amusement … and something else, much more disquieting.

She flushed. “No, of course I’m not. I know a great deal better than to fish for compliments with
you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said lazily. “I could provide a few.” He reached out a hand and caught her chin on
a fingertip. His eyes held hers and a little smile played over his mouth. “For instance, you have the most beautiful eyes. And your mouth has such a wonderful way of turning up at the corners. And the hollows under your cheekbones always seem to hold shadows, so that often you look—”

“Oh, stop!” Emma interrupted, jerking her face away from his hand. “Don’t be so odious!”

“Now, that, my sweet, is no way to receive a compliment,” he said with mock severity. “You should smile, and blush, and maybe lower your eyes in confusion; but flying at me as if I’ve insulted you definitely will not do.”

Emma tried not to smile but the corners of her mouth wouldn’t stay still.

“That’s better,” he approved. “Laugh at me by all means. I won’t take offense.”

“Oh, you’re too absurd,” Emma declared roundly, taking up her wineglass again. “Is the rain stopping? The horses will be miserable.”

Alasdair ignored this. He reached for her glass and took it from her suddenly nerveless fingers. All amusement had left his expression. Leaning over, he cupped her face in his hands. His eyes were utterly serious, utterly intent as they looked deep into her own.

There was an eternity of silence. Emma could hear her own heart beating in her ears; she could feel the whisper of his breath on her face. She felt as if her body were suspended in crystal, poised, liable at any minute to shatter.

Alasdair broke the silence. “So, Emma?” he said softly, his fingertips lightly caressing her cheekbones.

What was he asking? But she knew. She made no
reply, merely gazed steadily into his eyes, waiting to see what he would do next.

He smiled a little ruefully. “What must I say, Emma?”

The game was over, she realized with a surge of relief and a tremor of apprehension. She responded obliquely. “What did you do with Paul Denis?”

“Oh.” His smile grew even more rueful. “Must I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you must know, I hit him over the head with a brass nymph.”

“You did what?” Emma exclaimed in shock. “What a dreadful thing to do to the poor man.”

“Well, he was in my way, you see,” Alasdair explained apologetically. “And there wasn’t time for more subtle measures.” The tips of his fingers moved to her mouth, lightly brushing over her lips, making them tingle.

“Does he know you hit him?”

“Good God, I hope not. He’d be bound to call me out.” Alasdair sounded genuinely horrified at the prospect. “Pistols or small swords at dawn has never sounded like an appealing prospect.”

Since Alasdair was a superb marksman and an excellent fencer, Emma gave little weight to this protestation. “It was a barbaric thing to do,” she declared.

“Perhaps,” Alasdair agreed. “But I really cannot like the fellow. And I’m afraid, my sweet, that I was not … am not … prepared to stand aside while you take Paul Denis as your lover. Nor am I prepared to see you throw yourself away in marriage to an acknowledged fortune hunter. So …” He shrugged. “What could I do?”

“You have no right,” Emma said in a stifled voice.
“You cannot manage my life the way you choose, Alasdair.”

“You are mistaken,” he replied with a glint of mischief in his eyes now. “I only intend to manage your life the way
you
choose.” His mouth hovered over hers, and Emma with a violent exclamation jumped up from the bench.

She stepped away from him, almost as if she would ward him off. She stood with her back against a pillar, looking remarkably like a hunted animal, Alasdair thought, a frown now in his eye.

He didn’t move for a minute, watching her closely. When he did rise from the bench, it was so swiftly that Emma didn’t have time to react before he stood in front of her. She was backed up against the pillar, unable to move as he placed his hands on the pillar on either side of her head.

“Don’t run from me, Emma,” he said softly. “After last night, we both know that nothing’s changed between us.”

“Don’t you understand?” she cried. “That’s the problem. We’re doomed, Alasdair. We are so very bad for each other and yet we do things so well together. Everything … music … singing … loving … quarreling …
everything.
And yet we destroy each other at the same time.”

“How are we bad for each other?” he murmured. “Like this, perhaps … or like this … or this …” His mouth moved to her ear, his teeth nibbled her earlobe, his tongue traced a moist path over her cheekbones, darted into the corners of her mouth even as his teasing whisper rustled against her ear.

He moved his arms around her body so that he was holding her tightly against him, his hands sliding over her backside, gripping the rounded flesh beneath
her habit with urgent fingers, lifting her so that involuntarily she rose on tiptoe. His erection pressed hard against her lower belly, and her loins were filled with a liquid weakness that made her thighs quiver.

Now there was no caution, no wariness, only this wild, urgent need. At this moment, Emma couldn’t have cared if Alasdair was the devil incarnate. He was what she wanted. What she had always wanted. Her hand went to the hard bulge of his penis beneath his britches, cupping its shape, feeling it move and harden yet more under her hand. She sighed with pleasure, shifting her body against him.

“God, how I’ve missed you,” Alasdair whispered. He felt for her breasts where they were outlined beneath the tight-fitting jacket. He pressed the soft mounds into his palms and Emma sighed again, but with increased urgency.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! We can’t do this here.” Alasdair wrenched himself away from her. “For God’s sake, look where we are!” A short laugh escaped him at the ludicrousness of their situation. “A drafty Greek temple in the pouring rain!”

“Yes, but what can we do? Where can we go?” Emma demanded, her arms crossed over her breasts, her teeth chattering as much with frustration as cold.

“I know somewhere,” Alasdair said with brisk decision. “Stay here and I’ll bring up the horses.”

“You’ll get soaked.”

“In my present state, that can only be to the good,” he responded with a wry grin. “Pack up the picnic. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Emma threw the remains of their picnic higgledy-piggledy into the leather box. Her hands were shaking, whether with cold or frustrated passion she didn’t know. Her skin was cold, but her blood was
hot as molten lava, racing through her veins. She was incapable of coherent thought; her brain seemed to have take up residence in her loins, and it was the only part of her anatomy of which she seemed fully aware.

Alasdair brought the horses up. They were wet and doleful, hanging their heads in misery. “You’re going to get soaked,” Alasdair said, tossing Emma into the saddle with a hand beneath her foot. “But it’ll only take us about fifteen minutes.”