My Dearest Enemy (18 page)

Normally Lily would have enjoyed the mile long walk to Drummond's office, if not the destination. Especially on a fine day like this, with the warm sun shining, the dog roses blooming red in the hedgerows and green leaves scenting the air. But today she was too conscious of the reception Drummond was likely to give her and far too conscious of Avery Thorne walking beside her.

She kept recalling her childish insistence that women could do anything men could do and Avery's efforts to ignore her more provocative statements which, rather than offer her a way out, had only provoked her more.

Avery was the sort of man who had all the answers, who would take control of any situation no matter how distasteful or dire and make it work, who simply did not allow things to go wrong. Capable, bold, dauntless, and supremely confident, he was the quintessential male.

And the very strength that she resented made him undeniably attractive. Like a mesmerist's suggestions, Francesca's words from their tete-a-tete whispered irrepressibly in her mind.
Act. Take what you want. Why be passive
—
are you some inanimate thing
?

Her tone had been so amused, so sanguine.
Are your desires any less real for being female, Lily? I assure you they are quite as real as any man's
.

Lily lengthened her stride but it was impossible to outdistance Francesca's voice.
Why wonder what it would be like when the smallest effort could so easily yield the knowledge you want
?

"Are you late for your appointment?"

Lily, by now trotting along the footpath bordering the pond, forced herself to slow down. "No. Not at all. Sorry."

Avery paused by the mill pond and measured the berms with his gaze, probably wondering why she hadn't had them built up in order to prevent the flooding that had ruined the wheat field this spring. The answer was simple: she hadn't had the money to build them up and she'd refused to ask for credit.

While he stood surveying the land, she moved on toward the stable. The door stood open and the soft dusty-warm fragrance of horse drifted out. Her footsteps slowed. A soft whicker greeted them. Lily smiled. It sounded like India.

Unable to resist, she went inside, inhaling the earthy scent of manure and sweet hay—hay she'd been obliged to buy with a portion of her small, precious cash reserves.

Quietly, she moved down the long line of box stalls, her feet sinking noiselessly into the soft, freshly raked sand alley. From overhead the filtered sun created puddles of light on the alley. The cloistered sound of shifting hooves rose like a mummer's chant as she passed the stalls.

This was her favorite place. It housed twenty horses, most never even ridden. Avery must think her daft to keep so many.

A small delicately shaped muzzle pushed its way between the bars of the box stall nearest her. Lily stopped and rubbed the soft, velvety nose. " 'Allo, India, my love."

She glanced over her shoulder. Avery hadn't followed her. Instead, he stood outside his tall, broad-shouldered frame silhouetted against the bright May sky. He couldn't dislike horses. No one disliked horses. Regretfully leaving India's stall, she joined him outside.

"They didn't cost much. Hardly anything."

"What didn't?" he asked.

"The horses. They were nearly gifts."

He sniffed. "I see."

He turned, but she snagged his sleeve. Startled he looked down at her, his expression wary. Normally she would have taken umbrage at that sniff but this was too important. If she failed to inherit Mill House,
he
would have to take care of her horses.

"I don't think you do," she said. "If I didn't buy them they'd have been slaughtered outright or sold cheap to drag plows or overloaded carts in the city. They're race horses. They're built differently. Delicate. They'd be broken and dead within a month."

He sniffed again.

"That's not fair. They gave their hearts and souls. It isn't their fault if they didn't win the bloody races."

His gaze remained fixed on her fingers still clutching his jacket. Flushing she removed them, patting the wrinkles her clasp had left behind.

"You keep failed race horses." His voice sounded odd, rough.

"Not all failed," she said. "India placed in any number of county races and there's a gelding in there that showed against Gladiateur himself."

"Congratulations."

"Don't patronize me," she said. "I know full well the drain these horses are on my finances. But at least as of now they're
my
finances."

"I didn't suggest otherwise." He cleared his throat.

She tried to read any hint of mockery in his extraordinary blue-green eyes. She couldn't. They were suspiciously reddened around the edge and the sheen of moisture dazzled their blue-green color to brilliance. Realization hit her with the force of a blow. Avery Thorne was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He'd been touched… no deeply moved by these horses' story. She stared at him in mute amazement.

"Can we get away from here?" he asked gruffly.

He must deem the expense of keeping the horses a nearly cretinous mismanagement of money. Yet he didn't argue at all, he simply looked miserable, his wide mouth pulled down.

"Would you—" she hesitated "—would you like to see them?"

His brows drew together, as if he suspected her of some nefarious purpose.

"No," he answered, clearing his throat again. "No, I think we'd better press on."

He motioned her to precede him, falling into step beside her as they followed the footpath into the orchard. Ancient, gnarled arms of apple trees bowed beneath the weight of blossoms. Bees, like diminutive courtiers bedecked in gold pantaloons, complained drowsily as they went about their errands in the pink shadowed warmth, and an occasional breeze sent handfuls of thin petal confetti swirling down upon their heads.

"I thought the orchard larger than this," Avery said.

"It's exactly the same size it was five years ago," Lily said quickly. In here, his eyes appeared darker, deeper, like smoky blue-green jade.

"I only meant," he said, picking up a slender stick, "that when I was a child I thought this orchard stretched to the sea. It was a vast wilderness and the potential for adventure just as far as the next hillock. A dragon, Robin Hood, Lancelot, they all lived here. I met them all."

He lunged forward as if he wielded a rapier. A quick parry and he saluted her. Without thinking, she scooped up a slender branch, the end still tufted with leaves and raised it before her face.

"En garde!"

For a second his eyes widened in surprise. She took advantage, lunging forward and plunging the leafy tip into his mid-section.

"Point!"

His eyes narrowed, with delight or promise of retribution? she wondered. Probably both.

"Thornes don't die so easily, m'dear," he said and with that whacked her branch away with his stick before swirling it in a series of dizzying feints and parries that had her stumbling backward.

"No fair," she panted. "You're mortally wounded."

"A mere scratch," he contradicted, knocking away leaf after leaf from the tip of her woodland epee. "Never underestimate the power of sheer determination."

"Or sheer perverseness?" she asked darting behind a gnarled ancient apple's trunk and giving him a cheeky grin.

"That, too," he allowed and disappeared behind another tree.

She withdrew behind the trunk to catch her breath before peeking out and looking for him. He hadn't yet emerged. With a small, triumphant smile she stole from where she stood, moving behind a tree directly to his left. She could see the edge of his jacket. She had him.

With a triumphant cry she jumped forth, branch at the ready, arm curled behind her head in the prescribed manner, eyes gleaming and cried, "Throw down!"

His jacket hung from a broken limb.

"That would be my suggestion, yes."

She whirled. Avery stood behind her, one shoulder jammed nonchalantly against a tree trunk, legs crossed, twirling his stick like a baton. He raised a dark, winged brow. "In the parlance of popular melodrama, I believe I have you in my power."

A deeper meaning seemed to suffuse his words and for a second his extraordinary eyes were dark with speculation… and something else. And then the moment was gone.

"Aye, sir. I'm yours to command," she said cheekily and tossed her branch at his feet.

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that," he said, smiling, a deep dimple carved into one darkly tanned cheek, before he tossed his leafy epee away.

"A wise man," she agreed a bit breathlessly.
If a woman only sits and waits for what she wants, then she cannot complain of leftovers
. Drat Francesca!

Lily cleared her throat. "I suppose… we'd best go." Without waiting she turned away, hurrying ahead until they emerged from the orchard into a meadow ringed by an ancient hedge and found the break in the thick dog roses that had long since been mended by a tall wooden stile. If she'd been alone she would have climbed the rails and cut across the field.

"I used to cross the meadow on my way to see old Drummond. Saved myself a fifteen minute hike," Avery commented. He plucked a deep crimson rose and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. His hands were strong-looking and lean, the nails trimmed and clean, the tips blunt and callused. Yet he set the little rose dancing with a touch as adroit as it was heedless.

"Did you?" she mumbled.

He held the rose up, closing one eye and squinting at her through the petals. Probably comparing its color to the blush she felt rising. Drat Francesca anyway for seeding her thoughts with such things.

"Yes." He reached out and poked the flower into the hair at her temple, catching her so completely off-guard that her mouth fell open. "Care to save yourself some time?"

"I… well… I…"

He placed a hand against the top rail and vaulted over, landing lightly on the other side. "Come." He held out his hand.

She wanted to take his hand, to place herself, even in such a small capacity in his care, and so she ignored his offer. Putting her boot on the bottom rail, she clambered ungracefully to the top. She perched on the top rail, studying the uneven ground below for a landing place.

"You really adhere to your 'I can do it myself code, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." She looked up and found herself just above his eye level. It was a lovely level to be. His razor mustn't be very sharp because a dark cast already covered his chin. For some reason the thought heartened her. It made him seem more human. Less all powerful. A razor had bested him. And she rather liked being taller than Avery Thorne.

She swung her legs, unwilling to give up her vantage. "I take my independence seriously," she said. "You would, too, were you a woman."

He rested his forearm on the top rail, very near her hip, leaned close in a confiding manner, and said lazily, "Happily, I'm not a woman."

It felt as though someone had knocked the air out of her. Her breath came out in a rush.
No. Most definitely not
.

"And, being a man," he continued, "I don't have to protect my independence quite so fiercely. Must be frightfully tiring, always having to be on guard lest someone jeopardize your right to climb a fence unaided."

"It's easy for you to mock," she said. "If you were a woman you would know that any act of self-determination is to be celebrated. Little battles are only a prelude to the larger ones." Like legal equality under the marriage contract, she thought but did not say.

"Rest assured, Miss Bede, I have no desire to thwart your independence. I simply offered you the aid any gentleman would offer a lady."

"Mr. Thorne," she said, "my father had a pedigree but my mother had none. Her great-grandparents were itinerant laborers. You would call them gypsies, if not tramps."

His brows drew together. "That explains it."

"I suppose you refer to my lack of refinement. You're offended, aren't you?" she said, without any of the satisfaction she should be feeling at having shocked Avery Thorne.

"Not in the least," he said with haughty simplicity. "My comment was made in reference to my discovering where you come by your extraordinary coloring. You, Miss Bede, are a snob. I have encountered your ilk before."

"My ilk?" she sputtered.

"Yes. Those persons with an exaggerated opinion of their lineage and how it affects others. I assure you, I do not give a rip what your ancestors did or did not do for a living. According to Mr. Darwin all of our ancestors swung in trees. Your type will always want to discuss whose swung on the higher branch."

"Oh!" He took all of her fears, her insecurities and dismissed them as snobbery?

"And, Miss Bede, as much as I hate to contradict you—"

"You
adore
contradicting me. In every letter you sent me you—"

"
And much as I hate to contradict you
," his voice rose, drowning out her protests, "I insist that I certainly know a lady when I see one. You are a lady."

Having made this declaration, he nodded, as though the matter were now settled and turned, propping both elbows on the rail and staring placidly out at the meadow, apparently content to stay there as long as she wished. Him being a gentleman and all.

He looked absolutely masterful, completely at ease, gorgeously masculine and she… she was… what had Francesca said?
She
was in a
state
.

He turned his head and smiled benignly at her.

It was the last straw. "Would a lady do this?" She leaned over, grabbed his head between her hands and kissed him.

He jerked back and she grabbed his shoulders to keep from pitching into the ground, inadvertently deepening the kiss. Beneath her lips his were warm as sun-heated plush, an exquisite blend of pliancy and firmness. In an ecstasy of sensitivity her own grew deliciously, dazzlingly responsive.

Her hands crept from his broad shoulders to his neck and finally his lean cheeks, bracketing his face between them. His beard stubble rasped her palms and his skin heated the pads of her fingertips as she explored the slight indentations beneath his high cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, and finally the corners of his lips. With a deep moan, she explored the heart-stopping rush of sensations.