All About Love (20 page)

Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her lungs were so tight she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think, but she knew the answer. “Yes.”

His lips lifted. “Then relax.” They closed the distance and brushed hers; his voice was a whisper in her mind. “And let me show you what you want to know.”

It was easy, so easy to do just that, to give him her mouth, to let herself flow, boneless in his arms. They held her, but not tightly. She felt cradled, protected, cared for.

Worshipped.

The thought floated through her mind as his fingers gently trailed her cheek. The touch was as wondering as hers had ever been; she suddenly understood how he had known it had been she who had touched him in Horatio’s drawing room. She’d never forget his touch, either—it was such a revealing, oddly innocent, gesture.

His fingers drifted lower and he framed her jaw, his tongue surging boldly. Not innocent at all. She met him, knowing now what he wanted, what he liked. A dangerous knowing—so tempting to use it, to learn a little more. Her hands lay passive against his chest—she pushed them up, over his shoulders, fingers spreading over the powerful muscles, then sliding further to tangle in his hair.

It was soft, silky, black as a night sky. She sank her fingers into the thick locks, holding tight as he slowly, unhurriedly, plundered her mouth, taking, certainly, but giving more.

Addictive. Another word that drifted through her mind. It had to be that—the sweetest craving—that held her to the kiss even when he released her jaw.

Forbidden—he was surely that. She shouldn’t be kissing him at all, yet the idea of stopping seemed totally foolish, something she never was. His fingers trailed, just the tips tracing tantalizingly down her throat, tightening nerves she hadn’t known she possessed. His fingers trailed on, lower; flames followed, heat spread.

Her breast was swollen long before he touched it; once he had, she didn’t want him to stop. His touch was light, excruciatingly insubstantial—she wanted more, much more.

Experienced—thank heavens he was that. His hand settled, hard palm cupping the weight of her breast. Delight was all she felt as his fingers firmed, then eased. His hand shifted, caressed. She sighed into their kiss and sensed his satisfaction, felt the hand at her back firm.

The kiss grew more demanding, a fire that needed tending. She gave it her full attention, only dimly aware when the warmth of his hand about her breast slid away.

Need was growing within her, but for what she didn’t know. The compulsion was not one she recognized. Then she felt the top button of her bodice give, and knew. A thrill of pure excitement raced through her. That was what she needed—a scandalous need, assuredly, yet . . . her breasts were swollen, aching with the heat of their kiss. Her wits were awash on the swelling tide that lapped about them. A languorous thing, it whispered promises of things she’d never known, of pleasure beyond imagining.

The touch of cool air on her breasts, the light tracing of his fingers as he brushed her bodice wide, drew her from the mesmerizing warmth of their kiss. She should stop him, she knew it, yet . . . she couldn’t recall why. There was no threat, no danger—he’d told her to trust him and she did. If she wanted this to end, wanted to bring the simple pleasure to a halt, she only had to say.

She didn’t say—she had no reason to. She wanted to know, to feel, to be touched and savored. Just once to be a woman desired.

He gave her what she wanted, that and much more.

She hadn’t known that his lips would feel like that, there. That the hot wetness of his mouth could scald her so and rip her wits away. Hadn’t known that her body could grow so hot and heavy, so wanton with desire.

It was desire that thrummed through her, that pounded in her blood, that rose to every touch, every tantalizing caress. His lightest touch was sharp delight; more explicit caresses left her senses reeling. Heated pleasure was what he conjured; purposely, he wrapped her in it, pressed it upon her, and let it sink into her.

Until she was filled with it, until her mind rode on the warm waves and her body was melting.

His lips returned to hers, and she welcomed him back. His hand closed possessively about her naked breast and her body sang.

He drew back from the kiss, just enough to look down at her. He studied his hand, firm and still about her breast; her flesh filled and heated even more. His gaze lifted to rove her face, her eyes. He glanced past her.

His gaze steadied, fixed beyond her. Then he blinked; she saw his eyes widen and alter focus, saw his features harden. She felt the changing tension in his body.

Lucifer looked back at her—and tried to think. Tried to breathe past the tightness in his chest. She lay relaxed in his arms, her nipple furled between his fingers, her skin hot silk against his palm. He felt dazed. Rational thought had left him long ago; desire rode him—potent temptation flicked a whip.

He knew what he wanted, the need sharp as spurs, as clamorous as any demon.

A tempest was bearing down on them, racing over the sea, piling thunderheads before it, yet looking into her eyes, drowning dark beneath heavy lids, with her body supple and heated in his arms, he wasn’t sure in which direction danger lay.

It had been a long, long time since he’d surrendered so completely that he’d lost all sense of self-protection.

Stifling a curse, he bent his head and kissed her, passion-deep, fire-hot. He closed his hand over her breast, fingers kneading, tightening . . . then easing. He drew back—from the kiss, from the caress, his fingers reluctantly leaving her. He brushed a last kiss to her lips as he drew her bodice closed.

Her eyes blinked wide, revealing surprise . . . disappointment.

Features setting grimly, he nodded out to sea. “There’s a storm blowing in—we have to go back.”

Late the next morning,
Lucifer tramped through the wood behind the Manor and tried not to think about the previous day. He’d told Phyllida the truth; they’d had to go back, to retreat. He’d gone charging into unchartered terrain, far too fast for her, and much too fast for him.

Thank God for storms.

He’d started today with breakfast at a table too empty for his liking. He’d never lived alone; the solitary life did not suit him. He’d repaired to the library and started sorting through Horatio’s desk. He’d spent two hours reading accumulated correspondence.

After that, he’d had to get out. Walking through the wood to explore the lay of his land all the way down to the Axe seemed a sensible, and sufficiently physical, exercise.

He felt like the energy of last night’s storm was bottled up inside him.

The storm had brought rain; they’d gained Colyton in the teeth of a downpour. Although the sun was now out, the wood remained damp; the tang of rain-washed greenery rode the light breeze. He’d headed east from the rear of the stable block, leaving the lake on his left. The trees ahead thinned; he’d trudged for less than half a mile. Fifty paces more and he stood on the edge of a wide field, gently sloping down; beyond lay a lush meadow. Beyond that lay the Axe, a gray-blue ribbon glimmering in the sunshine.

He ambled down the sloping field. A flash of movement to his left caught his eye. He looked, then halted.

Phyllida was marching—no,
storming
—through his field. Her skirts frothed about her, whipped by the violence of her stride. Her gaze was fixed in front of her. Her dark hair gleamed. She held her poke bonnet in both hands.

She was mangling the bonnet, twisting it, hands clenched on the brim.

He stepped out to intercept her.

She didn’t see him until he was almost upon her. She recoiled, eyes flaring, one hand rising to her breast. A squeak escaped her; it would have been a scream if she hadn’t recognized him and smothered it. Gulping in a breath, she stared up at him through huge dark eyes.

“What’s wrong?” He smothered an urge of his own—to haul her into his arms. “What happened?”

She dragged in another breath and looked at her bonnet. She was shaking. “Look!” She thrust her finger through a hole in the crown. “The ball just missed my
head
!”

Her tone made it clear she wasn’t shaking with fear. She was shaking with fury. She whirled and looked back the way she’d come. “How
dare
they!” If both hands hadn’t been clenched on the bonnet, she would probably have shaken her fist. “Stupid hunters!”

The words trembled; she bit them off and hiccuped.

Lucifer reached out and wrapped his hand around one of hers, tugging until she released the bonnet. He enveloped her small hand in his and drew her to face him.

Her expression was blank, not calm and serene but blank, as if she couldn’t maintain her usual mask but was fighting not to let her feelings show. Her eyes, wide and dark, were turbulent, awash with emotions. Fear was there, very real; she was using her fury to counter it.

He drew her nearer still, until she stood close enough to feel his heat and the shield of his physical presence. She was wound tight, her control so brittlely fragile he didn’t want to risk even putting an arm around her; she wouldn’t thank him if she broke. “Where did it happen?”

She dropped her gaze to his chest, drew a tight breath, then gestured with her bonnet. “Back there. Two fields back.” After a moment, she added, “I was returning from visiting old Mrs. Dewbridge—I go there every Friday.”

A chill touched his spine. “
Every
Friday morning?”

She nodded.

His grip on her hand tightened; he forced himself to relax it. He looped her arm through his. “I want you to show me where.”

He turned her back along the track, an old right-of-way. She resisted. “It’s no use—they won’t still be there.”

“I know.” He kept his tone calm, even; that wasn’t how he felt, but it was what she needed. “I just want you to show me where you were. We won’t go any further.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

He guided her along and helped her over the stile. A sliver of blue fabric was caught in the crossbar where she’d ripped her gown in her haste.

Despite her fury, she’d been very frightened.

She still was.

They reached the boundary of the next field and she stopped. “I was there.” She waved with her ruined bonnet. “Right in the middle of the field.”

Lucifer held her hand and looked, gauging distances. “Can I have your bonnet?”

She handed it to him; he took it and raised it—there were
two
holes punched through the crown. Without a word, he handed it back. His face felt like stone. She’d glanced down at the critical moment; the ball had entered through the back of the bonnet just below the crown seam, then exited through the bonnet’s top, on the other side of the seam. “Let me check your head.”

“I didn’t get hit,” she grumbled, but she let him look.

Her hair lay like mahogany silk, sleek and undisturbed—no wound. He imagined the way her bonnet would sit, then touched his fingers to her hair. Grit, very fine, came away on the pads of his fingers. He sniffed them. Powder—the bullet had come that close.

He looked back at the field. The path didn’t run directly across but angled away toward the river. “Did you hear anything? Glimpse anyone?”

“No, but . . .” She lifted her head. “I ran. Silly, I know, but I just did.”

Running might have saved her life. He said nothing, just drew a breath and held it until his violent reaction faded. She’d been walking this way; the only possible place of concealment was a copse on the far side of the field.

“I’ll walk with you to the Grange.”

The glance she shot him said she felt she should protest. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, she inclined her head and acquiesced.

Sir Jasper was out when they reached the Grange. Lucifer delivered Phyllida into Gladys’s hands, making sure, despite Phyllida’s dismissive remarks, that Gladys understood that her mistress had had a severe shock.

He left with Phyllida glaring at him; he didn’t care. She was safe.

He strode back to the Manor via the wood, and was pleased to find Dodswell had arrived with the rest of his horses. Dodswell had paced the string well; they had enough in reserve to go for a quick gallop.

Taking Dodswell with him, he rode back to the copse. Dismounting at the edge of the field, they tethered their mounts while he told Doswell what they were looking for.

They found it close by one side of the copse, the side screened from the walking track.

“Just the one horse.” Dodswell examined the hoofprints in the rain-softened earth. “Nice, clean front shoes.”

Lucifer stared at the ground farther back. “I can’t find any impressions of the back hooves.”

“Nah. That turf there’s too thick, more’s the pity.”

Grimly, Lucifer nodded at the hoofprints they had found. “What do you make of them?”

“Decently looked-after horse, fresh shoes, no nicks or cracks, well-filed hooves.”

“A gentleman’s horse.”

“A horse from a gentleman’s stable, anyway.” Dodswell studied Lucifer’s face. “Why are we interested?”

Briefly, Lucifer told him of the horse that had stood at the back of the Manor’s shrubbery. Told him who had a hole in her bonnet. He didn’t tell him why.