What Price Love? (19 page)

He released her breast. He shifted behind her, then leaned forward, his shoulders and chest bending her over the desk as his distracting fingers returned to her breast.

“Lean on your hands.”

She did. And felt his tongue sweep over the galloping pulse at the base of her throat. Felt his fingers close once more about her tortured, excruciatingly sensitive nipple.

Her lungs tightened until they hurt, her nerves coiled, her body throbbed hotly, weeping with need as his fingers withdrew from the furnace between her thighs.

The blunt head of his erection filled the void.

He pressed in, then forged deeper, forcing her up on her toes.

The sound that fell from her, part sob, part moan, resonated with surrender. With her need, with her hunger.

He locked one hand about her bare hip; the other remained, hard and hot, about her breast. He held her anchored before him, with
drew and thrust deep, feeding and fulfilling her raging hunger with every long, heavy stroke.

She gasped, and let her head hang, let the sensations wash through her and over her. Felt the touch of his lips, the caress of his breath on her bare nape as he filled her—as plea sure bloomed, rose up, and swamped them both.

Dillon knew the instant she let go, the instant she ceded all rights to him and left him to set the pace.

It was a heady moment, one he would have liked to savor, but the heat of her slick sheath closing like a scalding glove about his rigid flesh drove him on. Gave him no surcease, no chance to use his brain.

When he had her in his arms, all he knew, all he could assimilate while sunk in her body, was feelings. They rose up, beat around him and through him; some battered him. Some pushed through the conflagration, cindering his senses and his defenses, and sank deep, took hold.

Sank talons and winding tendrils deep into his soul.

He knew, not by thought but by instinct, why they were there, how he came to be taking her so possessively, a possession veiled by his sophisticated expertise, perhaps, but he knew the truth.

Knew what drove him.

Last night…she might have been a virgin—initially, he'd assumed she was, but her bold and brazen temptation had made him wonder, made him doubt. But then had come that staggering moment when she'd so deliberately impaled herself upon him, and he'd known. Not simply that she'd never had a man inside her before, not just that he was by her choice the first, but that he would move heaven and earth, harness the stars, and do what ever it took to be the only.

The vow hadn't needed to be spoken, hadn't even needed to be thought. In that moment, it had simply come into being, enshrined in his soul, engraved on his heart.

And he accepted it.

The realization that he did stunned him, shook him, yet at no level was he able to shake the rigid and resolute conviction.

She. Was. His.

He'd known the moment he'd set eyes on her, and the knowledge had only grown more entrenched.

All very well. His logical mind had coped, had formulated plans to bring about what his inner self needed, and now had to have. One way or another, he would secure her; he entertained no doubts on that score.

But what ate at him wasn't rational, not within the realms of logical thought. The need that whispered through him, that gripped and consumed him whenever she was close, whenever opportunity arose and his reckless self perceived it, was entirely conceived within the realms of passion. An unforgiving need forged in the heat of unbridled yearning, in the flames of unbounded desire.

He craved her. Craved the taste of her, the feel of her bare skin, the scent of her aroused and abandoned. Like an addict she drew him, and he simply had to have.

That was why he held her bent over the open ledger on his desk, her bare bottom and the backs of her thighs riding against him as he filled her, the fine skin covering her hip hot silk beneath his hand, her pebbled nipple hard as stone between his fingers as he sank his rigid staff into the hot haven between her thighs, as he sank deeply into her body and claimed it anew.

He'd had to have her again, had been driven to soothe that wild and reckless self she so flagrantly provoked, with whom she so determinedly wanted to engage.

Her body tightened about him, and he felt the reins fall away. Sensed the compelling thunder rise in his blood, in his head. Felt the heat rise through her, catch her in its grip and sweep her up. High, higher.

Until she touched the stars.

Until she shattered, and with a soft cry fell from the peak.

Her sheath contracted powerfully about him, once, twice; that was all he could stand. With a guttural groan he followed her, swept away on the tide as his body joined forcefully, unrestrainedly with hers.

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, in trickles of awareness.

They were bent over the desk, breathing like horses that had just finished a race. His hand had fallen from her breast to brace beside hers, taking his weight. Her head was bowed, her nape beneath his lips.

He touched them to the delicate skin, on the whisper of a breath traced.

Wondered, in the disjointed part of his mind that had managed to realign, whether she really thought he'd claimed her in payment for information, as he'd let her believe—or whether she'd guessed. Whether in her heart, in her female mind, she knew the truth.

The truth that was written on his soul.

P
ris returned to the world, warm, sated, indescribably content, and feeling strangely secure.

Dillon must have carried her to the armchair opposite the bookcase; her legs, still boneless, had certainly not supported her over the requisite yards. Slumped in the chair, he was cradling her in his lap, gently, as if she were fine porcelain.

She felt fine indeed, the glory of their joining still golden in her veins, yet despite the sensual lassitude that dragged at her body, she felt mentally energized, alert.

Expectant.

Their clothes were neat again, she presumed by his doing, for which she was grateful. Before she could gather sufficient strength to wriggle around to face him, his chest, behind her shoulders, rose and fell. His breath brushed her ear in a sigh.

“The information in the register is used in many ways.” He spoke quietly, evenly. “Breeders use it—they request information on horses they're considering using as sires or dams. It's also used to track changes in ownership, as well as constituting the official race record—the wins and loses, the races run—for every registered horse.”

He paused, then went on, “The information is also used to verify the identity of all placegetters in races run under Jockey Club rules.”

She remembered what Rus had said in his letter—a racket run in
Newmarket that somehow involved the register. Rus must have learned more, something that had made him leave Cromarty's stable and try to get a look at the register.

Dillon had told her the register's description was used to prevent “falsifying” winners. How did one “falsify” a winning horse?

She recalled the columns she'd recently perused, the countless details contained in each entry. Where in all that did the essential clue lie?

Dillon shifted; leaning on the opposite arm of the chair he studied her face. She felt his gaze but didn't meet it. Did the racket Harkness was running center on breeding, racing—or did it involve falsifying winners?

“It would be easier if you told me what, exactly, you need to know.”

The quiet statement had her meeting Dillon's dark eyes. He held her gaze steadily, and simply waited. He didn't press, wasn't pressing her; to her heightened senses, he seemed resigned.

She drew a breath, then stated as evenly as he, “I need to know how the register's information can be used illegally.”

He didn't move, yet she felt his reaction. Steel infused and hardened the muscles beneath her, turned the chest against which she rested to stone. The dark eyes that held her widening ones contained an implacability she hadn't seen in him before.

For a moment, Dillon struggled to find words, in the end simply said, “I can't tell you that.” His voice had flattened, grown hard. “But—”

He swallowed the unequivocal order he'd been about to utter, fought and succeeded in slamming a door on his too-violent response, succeeded in finding some degree of warrior calm. He'd known she was connected with some scam; probability had argued it was the current horse substitution one. Bad enough. That someone had shot at her had made matters worse. But to have her confirm that she was walking into the situation blind—
knowingly blind
—determined to protect her Irishman…!

He felt like roaring but knew better. Holding his roiling, welling emotions in check, holding her gaze, he refashioned his approach. “What ever it is you—and that Irishman—are involved in, it's serious.
Deadly
serious.”

Telling her of Collier's death, warning her that involving herself would bring her to the attention of whoever had murdered the breeder wouldn't be wise; she'd only grow more desperate to protect her friend. But just thinking of some murderer turning his attention her way sent a surge of well-nigh-ungovernable protectiveness rushing through him.

“This is
madness
.” Even to his ears, his tone sounded harsh. Jettisoning wisdom, he cupped her chin in one hand; eyes narrow, he captured hers. “Some man shot at you—it was
pure luck
he failed to kill you! There's other evidence those involved in this scam have already resorted to murder.” Releasing her chin, he gripped her upper arm; battling the urge to shake her, he forcefully stated, “You
have
to tell me what's going on—what you know, and who's involved.”

She stared at him; in the faint light from the distant lamp, he couldn't read her eyes. But then she looked down, at his hand clamped about her arm.

Exhaling through clenched teeth, he forced his fingers to unwrap, to let her go.

Looking away, she cleared her throat, then in a sudden burst of action, she pushed up and out of his lap.

He swore, had to fight not to grab her and haul her back as she quickly put distance between them.

The action—its implications—whipped his roiling, not entirely rational emotions to new heights. He had to sit for an instant, force his body to stillness to regain some semblance of control before, jaw clenched to hold back an unprecedented urge to roar, he rose and followed her to the desk.

Stalking in her wake, he reminded himself that she didn't yet know she was his.

She stopped before the desk, in the same spot where they'd so recently come together. She ran her fingers lightly across the open register. “Thank you for showing me.”

“Thank
you
for showing me—” He cut off the sarcastic, bitter words, but not before she'd caught his meaning.

The look she bent on him was reproving, and faintly, so faint he wasn't even sure of it except in his heart, hurt.

Just the suggestion slew his temper, deflated it. “I'm sorry. That was…”

“Uncouth.”

He muttered an oath, then raked a hand through his hair—something he'd never before done in his life. He had to resist the urge to clutch the thick locks. “
How
can I convince you that this is too dangerous?” Lowering his arm, he met her gaze. “That you have to tell me what's going on before whoever's behind it finds you?”

Folding her arms, Pris frowned at him. “You can stop swearing at me for a start.” Rounding the desk, she halted behind it and faced him across it. “If it's any consolation, I know what you're saying is true—that it
is
dangerous, and that I should tell you all.
But
…”

She watched the hardness reclaim his face; his expression grew stony and distant.

“But there's someone else involved, and you still don't trust me.”

He'd spoken with his habitual cool and even delivery. She looked at him, and equally evenly stated, “There's someone else involved—and I need to think things through.”

Her tone declared she was not going to be swayed by any arguments, physical, cerebral, or emotional.

For several heartbeats, they remained with gazes locked, the desk and the open register—and the memory of what had so-recently transpired—filling the space between them, then he sighed and waved her to him. “Leave the register. We'd better get back to Lady Helmsley's.”

He saw her out of the back door, then went out of the front door for the benefit of the guards. Circling the building, he rejoined her, and they headed for the wood.

She refused to let him carry her; sending him before her, she hiked up her skirts and followed at his heels. She traversed the wood without sustaining any damage; dropping her skirts, she stepped out into the weak moonlight. Side by side, they crossed the open expanse, then slipped into the Helmsleys' gardens.

He touched her arm. “We should go back via the terrace.”

So they'd appear to have been strolling the gardens. She nodded, and let him guide her; they followed a graveled path to the terrace.

Climbing the steps, she frowned. She couldn't see how the details in the register could have helped Rus, let alone how they might help her find him and save him.

Halting at the top of the steps, Dillon drew the delicate hand
he'd held since they'd reached the gardens through his arm. He met her gaze as it rose to his face. “When are you going to tell me?”

The most urgent question he needed answered.

Her expression remained defiant. “After I've thought about it.”

Holding her gaze, he forced himself to incline his head, a gesture of acceptance entirely at odds with his inclinations.

He led her to the French doors left open to the night. There were other couples taking the air; he doubted any had missed them enough to view their return as anything out of the ordinary. Together, they stepped into the ballroom, back under the chandeliers' lights.

Beside him, she cleared her throat and drew her hand from his arm. “Thank you for an enjoyable excursion, Mr. Caxton.”

Instinctively, his fingers had followed her retreating ones; grasping her hand, he captured her gaze, raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed. Looking into her eyes, he let her, for one instant, see the man within. “Think quickly.”

Her eyes widened, but then she arched her brows haughtily, slid her fingers from his grasp, turned, and, head high, moved away into the crowd.

 

H
e waited until Lady Fowles's party quit Helmsley House, then made his farewells to Lady Helmsley and left.

He drove home through the night, turning over all she'd said, reliving all he'd felt, all she made him feel…he was grateful neither Demon nor Flick had attended the party. Both knew him well enough to detect the change in him whenever Pris hove on his horizon; he was in no good mood to bear with Demon's too-knowing ribbing, let alone Flick's matchmaking instincts becoming aroused.

Just the thought made him shudder. With every year she spent at the feet of the older Cynster ladies, her innate tendencies grew worse.

On reaching Hillgate End, he saw a light glowing in his study. Driving to the stable, he learned that Barnaby had returned an hour ago, and subsequently a footman had been sent to fetch Demon, who had arrived fifteen minutes before.

Leaving his horses to the stableman's care, he walked swiftly to the house. He made his way to the front hall; crossing the tiled expanse, his heels ringing on the flags, he glanced at the wide window
at the rear of the hall, the small square panes dating from Elizabethan times, those set along the top bearing the family crest.

Caxtons had been here for centuries, had been a part of local life for all that time; uncles and cousins had moved away, but the principal branch had sent its roots deep and remained. He felt the connection as he always did when he passed the window. Looking ahead, he walked on to his study.

He opened the door on an unexpected sight. Not just Barnaby and Demon, but his father, too, was waiting.

The General was ensconced in a chair angled before the fire, a warm rug over his knees. Demon sat back from the blaze, facing the hearth in a straight-backed chair, while Barnaby had claimed the other armchair.

“Sir.” With a nod to his sire, Dillon closed the door, relieved to see the color in his father's cheeks and the alert gleam in his eyes. His mind was still sharp, but his strength was waning. To night, however, he seemed in fine fettle.

Fetching another straight-backed chair, he set it down and sat. “I take it there's news.” He looked at Barnaby. “What did you learn?”

Barnaby was unusually sober. “First, Collier was murdered, but we'll never get proof of it. He was found at the bottom of a quarry with his neck broken. He fell from the top, and as his horse came racing home in a lather with the saddle loose, it was assumed that something had spooked the horse while he'd been riding the cliff, and he'd been thrown.

“
However,
Collier was an excellent horse man. The horse was a strong, well-broken, even-tempered hack, one he habitually rode. Both the lad who saddled the horse, and the stable master who was present when Collier mounted, swear the girths were tight, that there was nothing wrong with either horse or tack. Most importantly, both thought Collier rode out to meet someone. Nothing specific said, but it wasn't the usual time he rode, the horse didn't need the exercise, and Collier seemed preoccupied.”

“What time of day was this?” Demon asked.

“A little before three o'clock. I eventually found three people who'd seen another rider head up to the quarry. None saw him
with
Collier, but unless someone was in the quarry itself, or on the cliffs, if Collier met with someone there, no one could have seen them.”

Dillon stirred. “So the quarry was the perfect venue for a secret meeting.”

“The perfect venue,” the General put in, “for murder unobserved.”

“Except for those three who saw the other rider at a distance,” Barnaby said, “but none could give me any description other than he wore a long coat and rode well.”

“Did you search for any visitor to the area?” Dillon asked.

Barnaby's sharp grin flashed. “That's what took so long. Reasoning the man might be Collier's unknown partner”—he nodded at Demon—“whose existence you predicted, I spoke with Collier's solicitor. Collier had been on the ropes last year, but was saved by a sudden injection of cash—he said the loan was from a friend. After Collier's death, the solicitor waited for the loan to be called in, but there was no attempt to claim the money. The sum was sizable, but Collier had had an excellent run with the bookmakers over the spring, and there was plenty in his kitty when he died.”

“Is that so?” Dillon exchanged a glance with Demon, then looked at Barnaby. “What did you learn about this benefactor?”

Barnaby sank back in the armchair. “Other than that he's a gentleman? Precious little. Assuming he'd ridden a hired nag, I called at all the local stables. Only one had hired a horse that day, but other than describing the man as a London ‘gent,' all they could tell me was that he was about as tall as I am, dark-haired, slightly heavier build, spoke like a ‘gent,' dressed like a ‘gent,' but was older, although how much older they couldn't say.”