“Your suitors have not—?”
“Oh, well, I didn’t have any suitors in Devon—except Mr. H. I was all spots and two stone rounder until last summer, after all. Gentlemen found nothing of interest in me.
You
didn’t.” She said it so blithely, as though commenting on the shade of the grass.
“I found your quantity of opinion interesting. And before that I found that you danced quite prettily.”
“You
remember
?” She drew her chin in, disbelief bright in her wonderful eyes. “You remember at Savege Park two years ago when I told you that you should not drink as you did? Do?”
“I do. Remember, that is.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider it. “But you don’t really remember dancing with me on the terrace at Lord and Lady Blackwood’s wedding. You
were
drunk then.”
“I remember everything, Miss Lucas. It is my curse.”
She seemed not to hear the last. “Do you . . . ?” Her gaze fluttered past his mouth, then down his chest. “Do you remember what those young men were saying to me?”
“I remember that you wished them to cease teasing you.”
Her voice quieted. “You saved me.”
He turned back to the carriage. “I merely recalled them to their manners.” He affixed the final loop of rope and pulled it tight. “All is ready here. We can leave immed—”
She grasped his arm. His every muscle tensed. She would not make this easy, but Wyn didn’t know if he wanted it to be easy. Part of him wished to crave something he could not have, and to suffer accordingly. It was the foolish part of him, the part that had trod that path of craving and suffering so well he knew it by heart, the part he’d thought he left behind when he escaped home, then again when he joined the Falcon Club, but that nevertheless clung tenaciously.
“Can—” She caught her lip in her teeth. “Can you tell me . . . ? How does one breathe?”
Very unsteadily while those eyes gazed up at him. “Breathe?”
“While kissing.”
Not
easy. He tried to moderate his voice. “In the usual manner, I imagine.”
Her slender brows dipped.
“At opportune moments,” he suggested.
Her lips twisted up in that manner he both dreaded and longed for.
“Through one’s nose, perhaps,” he said, because his only refuge was to continue speaking or to walk away.
“Really?” She appeared unconvinced.
And so, because her skepticism suited his need to have her lips beneath his again, he showed her how one breathed while kissing. To her soft gasp of surprise, he took her waist in his hands, bent to her mouth, and kissed her in truth this time. Her lips were warm and still, and then not still as he felt her eager beauty, tasted her, and made her respond.
She held back at first, and then she gave herself up to it. Her mouth opened to him as though by nature, offering him a sweet breath of the temptation within. If he’d gone seeking an innocent with more ready hunger he could not have found her. But he had not wanted an innocent. He’d wanted no one, yet here he was with his hands on a girl he could not release, his tongue tracing the seam of sweet, full lips that she parted for him willingly.
“Now, breathe,” he whispered against those lips, then he sought her deeper. She made sounds of surrender in the back of her throat. He wanted to run his hands over her body, to pull her to him and make her know what a real kiss could be.
“Breathe.”
God, she smelled so good
. He could press his face against her neck and remain there simply breathing her. But he feared that if he enjoyed much more of Diantha Lucas he would be in a very bad way when it came to giving her over to her stepfather and subsequently her intended. A very bad way indeed. And she didn’t deserve it.
Rule #9: A gentleman must always place a lady’s welfare before his own
.
She slipped her tongue alongside his, gasped a little whimper of pleasure, and he coaxed her lips open and showed her more than how to breathe. He showed her how he wanted her.
It was a pity for Miss Lucas’s welfare that no gentleman could be found here, after all.
S
he wanted it to go on and on, forever and ever.
His first kiss had not been what she expected. Having a man actually touching her face was a bit odd. It was not soft like when a woman bussed her on the cheek, but firm, and he smelled of leather and horse and a hint of elegant cologne. But after a moment she’d thought it was quite nice.
Quite
. It made her heart beat swiftly and her breathing cease. She’d been glad she arranged for Betsy to play lookout so Mrs. Polley would not discover it.
It did not feel odd any longer, and
glad
seemed an enormous understatement.
She never allowed anyone to touch her waist, not even her sisters when they embraced. Told so often by her mother and the girls at school that she was as wide as a tree trunk, she’d learned to pleat her gowns to hide her belly. When he grasped her waist she recoiled. But his hands were so large and strong and certain, and anyway his lips on hers made her forget entirely about her waist because she simply could not think. She gripped his arm, which was thrillingly hard, unlike his mouth that was a little bit open over hers and hot and made her hot too. But not just on her mouth. Rather, in other places that he was not even touching with his lips or hands, below her belly especially—deliciously warm and needy in a strange sort of way. It wasn’t what she had imagined—not in the least. She had always assumed it would be wet and distasteful, but the only place she felt wet was between her legs and he seemed to be doing the tasting.
She slipped her fingers higher on his coat sleeve to feel more. His muscles contracted beneath them, and the warmth low inside her fluttered.
“Breathe,” he murmured again, his voice a bit rough, and again she made the attempt, more of a choke than anything before his mouth covered hers anew. And while it was only lips touching, she felt like he was touching quite a bit
more
with each kiss. His hands slipped up over her ribs, so warm and strong and holding her firmly, halting just below her breasts.
Yes
. She liked a man’s hands so close to her breasts. It made her feel very hot and not at all uncomfortable. A little wild, truth be told, with delicious swirlings in the tips of her breasts. Her fingers clutched him and she let his lips urge hers open farther.
His tongue caressed hers. She gasped.
This
—this
perfect
touching—this could not be a typical kiss. She parted her lips, inviting him to touch her like that again. He did, then again, mating their tongues in a hot, slow dance that made her feel a little frantic. She met his advances, welcomed him inside her. It felt
so good
, indescribably good, like he was touching the very center of her. He was making her weak but she wanted more. More of
him
. All the little points of her body, her
skin
, wanted to be closer to him.
She curved her fingers around his shoulder and pressed herself forward. His grip tightened, holding her in place apart from him.
Abruptly he ended the kiss.
She opened her eyes. It took a moment to focus.
“Second,” she said in a remarkably thin voice. He was so handsome, his hands were tight around her where no one’s hands had ever been, and he made her dizzy. “Or rather, third.”
“Did you breathe?” His voice was very deep.
She nodded. By some miracle she
had
breathed while he kissed her, but frankly could not seem to now. “I regret having asked for just one.”
He released her and stepped back. His silvery eyes looked like mercury, like the soft throbbing inside her, but his brow creased. “Did you plan that?”
“Of course. I always have a plan f—”
“For everything.” He turned and moved toward his horses, and her heart did a few stuttered beats. Her lips were moist, and she still wanted his on them, and much more of his hands on her body.
She darted a glance at the door. No Betsy in sight. Mrs. Polley must still be safe in the house.
“Would you perhaps kiss me once more?”
He turned to face her, but now his silvery eyes were fierce and his jaw looked hard.
“Miss Lucas, do not ask again.”
“But, I—”
“If you ask again, I vow I will tie you up, stuff you in that traveling trunk, and haul you back to your stepfather’s home at once.”
“I would not fit in my traveling trunk. It is too full of other items.”
“I would remove those first, of course.” He turned to the brown horse and drew it forward. “Was your claim the other night that you can drive an empty boast or truth?”
“I never boast. It’s true. I learned when I was quite young.” At a ridiculously tender age she had convinced the coachman at Glenhaven Hall to teach her. Her stepfather always complained about how successfully she cozened the servants into agreeing to her wayward plans.
He tethered the brown horse to his mount. “Then you may drive. Only do not overturn the carriage. Mrs. Polley would undoubtedly find some justification for scolding me for it rather than you.” It seemed that he teased, but his eyes still glittered sharply.
“I promise not to overturn it.” She watched him move through the stable door ahead with his horses. “Thank you.”
“You needn’t thank me. Galahad prefers to be ridden rather than follow.”
She touched her fingertips to her lips to see if they felt different on the outside. They did not. But
she
did. He had just taught her how to breathe, and everything inside her felt different.
“I meant thank you for the kiss.”
He did not pause or acknowledge her words. But she thought she heard him mutter “Minx” as he went into the yard.
Fellow
Subjects,
I have frustrating news.
The man I hired to follow the member of the Falcon Club that I discovered
has lost the trail. I share with you this information because I have had
letters from many of you excited at my discovery, and I cannot bear to hold
you in suspense. It warms my heart that you are as desirous as I to know the
truth of this club.
—Lady
Justice
Dearest Lady,
I beg of you—mercy! You
must cease this teasing prose. When you write of warmth, your heart, and
desire all in the same sentence, I vow I can barely hold my seat. I would
erect a tent before the office of your publisher and sleep in it nights in
the hopes of capturing a glimpse of you entering the building upon the dawn.
Indeed, I have attempted it! Alas, the street warden will not allow it. Thus
I am forced to beg of you, my lady, consider my febrile imagination and give
it rest.
Increasingly yours,
&c.,
Peregrine
Secretary, The Falcon
Club
Sir,
You needn’t concern
yourself over Lady Rabble-Rouser’s recent ramblings. Raven’s skill at
avoiding danger is unmatched. He will throw off this unwanted attention
without trouble.
—Peregrine
H
e must get rid of her.
He could not wait on Carlyle’s arrival at the rendezvous place he’d indicated in the note sent with young William. He must be rid of her now before she invited him to take greater liberties with her. Before she made further
plans
.
Dear God, she could drive a man mad with her eager hands and ripe lips and the hunger in her mouth. If she offered him herself again, he wouldn’t even bother resisting. Nine girls in ten years, and he’d never been truly tempted. But now the bottle called to him more stridently than it ever had before too. Undoubtedly, he was slipping. His desires were not entirely within his control any longer.
But if he could keep temptation distant he could fight it. Riding provided some relief. When she rested from driving, however, and he tethered Galahad behind the carriage and took up the ribbons, she did not retire to the back of the carriage with Mrs. Polley. Instead she sat beside him, her arm brushing his with each bump in the road, and she told him stories obviously intended to amuse that gave him opportunity to watch her supple lips move, her hands that had clutched him gesture. She spoke with warmth and laughter, frequently darting glances at him. Despite her open manner, she was not at ease; her eyes shone in a manner they had not before.
He did not trust her not to come at him again. And so, rid of her he must be.
Opportunity presented itself mid-afternoon as the sun dipped, hovering over the hills of the Welsh marches as it did so often in his dreams. Years ago, smothered in the heat of the East Indies, during fitful nights he’d dreamed of this temperate, emerald land, the land he’d come to know in his youth, moving from farm to farm as he found work, carrying only his strength, a pack full of books, and the anger in his heart. During those years he had occasionally allowed himself rest. Every six months or so he visited the single place he’d ever felt at home. The only place he had ever been safe. The place he hadn’t allowed himself to go now in five years and to which he had intended to take Miss Lucas until Carlyle came to retrieve her.
Now he could avoid going there. This was not the opportunity he would have chosen, but he couldn’t throw it away. She seemed shy of nothing and her dedication to her mission was high. But when faced with true danger, she would not continue.
Duncan Eads would assist. Unintentionally. The Highlander had found them. Now he trailed them on the road, never approaching close. But soon Wyn would allow him to come close—not close enough to truly threaten her, but enough to frighten her into being eager to return home.
The man in brown pursued too, albeit less subtly, in plain sight throughout the morning. It was frankly a miracle Eads hadn’t yet dispatched his competition.
They stopped to eat the lunch Mrs. Bates had prepared, pulling the carriage into the shade of a copse of pine and oak in a shallow valley dominated by a mill. The place was deserted, miller and laborers at home for their midday repast. Nothing stirred now but the wooly denizens on the hills and the wildflowers that carpeted the valley fields in yellow, blown by the autumn breeze.
“The birds sing in every voice imaginable here.” She tossed the reins into his hands and hopped off the box. “At home I only ever hear endless crashing waves, and gulls.” She opened the carriage door and, as though she were the servant, hooked her arm beneath Mrs. Polley’s to support the elder woman. “At the Park it’s even worse up on that rock. Mrs. Polley, you must come visit Savege Park someday. It is far too grand for my tastes, but my stepsister is a countess. Truly! I knew you would never believe it, so I didn’t mention it before.”
Mrs. Polley patted her charge’s arm. “I’ll believe anything fine of you, miss. You’re such a sweet one.” She climbed stiffly from the carriage, nevertheless managing to glare at him. “Isn’t she, sir?”
“She is, indeed.” Sweet to taste. Sweet in his hands.
He glanced down the road. Eads would come along soon.
“The two of you will flatter my head into enormity.” She dimpled but her gaze skittered away from him. She did not believe the praise. All the better.
She led her companion to a stone seat devised from a wall of the mill. The building was high-roofed, the wheel turning as the little river snaking through the valley rushed beneath it, washing the place with sound. Within the hour the miller would return and again set to work on the mounds of freshly harvested grain stacked beneath the roof. Wyn knew the rhythm of harvest season in this country as well as he knew the workings of a pistol and precisely how to employ it to his advantage. For now they were alone, appealingly isolated.
He uncorked the bottle Bates had given him that morning and made certain she saw him drink from it. White gin, poorly distilled, it burned his throat and empty stomach. But it served the purpose. Within minutes the tremors in his hands would cease, and within half an hour she would believe what she must to make this charade a success.
Pretense and lies, masquerades and subterfuge. The stuff of his life. He swallowed another mouthful, peace streaming through his veins at last.
It was a damn good thing his great-aunt had died when she did, before she knew the truth. She would never have believed it. Or she would have, and it would have broken her heart.
D
iantha watched him covertly. She was accustomed to covert watching. Discouraged by her mother from putting herself forward among her parents’ friends, and perfectly aware that behind her back the other girls her age were poking fun at her, she’d learned how to watch and listen without being seen. With one exception: Serena had always seen her. Her stepsister, the kindest person she had ever known, had eyes in the back of her head. If she’d learned anything good in life, she’d learned it all from Serena. But when she found her eavesdropping, Serena’s loving looks always made Diantha feel guilty as sin.
But her mother was a sinner, so she clearly had gotten that in her blood.
She laid out the picnic, serving Mrs. Polley from the loaf of bread and crock of soft cheese, watching out of the corner of her eye as Mr. Yale again eschewed food for drink. She didn’t blame him. Her appetite had fled, though undoubtedly for another reason than his.
The butterflies in her stomach would not cease. Even prattling on about thorough inconsequentials while he drove hadn’t distracted her. His hands holding the reins looked so strong and
they had been on her
. On her waist.
Nearly touching her breasts
. Recalling it made her short of breath. And recalling his tongue in her mouth made her very hot, especially in her most intimate quarters.
She was a thorough wanton.
He reclined now in the rear seat of the open carriage, a bottle in one hand. Beneath hooded lids, he watched her. With an indolent grin, he lifted the bottle in salute to her.
A strange pulse went through her. It was not his usual smile, not the slight smile that gave the butterflies wing. This one made her feel a little sick.
She glanced about her. The brown horse grazed peacefully in the shade at the edge of the trees. But Galahad’s head was up, his ears perked high. Diantha threw her escort another glance. His eyes were closed now, his hand slack about the bottle. Mrs. Polley snored, propped up by Diantha’s folded cloak, Ramses curled in a ball at her feet, worn out too.
She slipped off the bench and crossed to Galahad, passing the carriage and the sleeping man. Diantha knew little about horses, but he was certainly alert. Perhaps a rabbit had caught his attention, or the miller had returned. Galahad turned to glance at her approach, his ears flickering, then shifted his attention ahead again.
“What is it?” She changed direction toward the corner of the mill, the ground beneath her feet damp in the shade of the trees abutting the far side of the building. “It must be very—”
She froze.
Her first reaction should have been to scream. Her sisters would have. They would respond appropriately to encountering a villain. But all Diantha could think was how huge the man was. At least a head and a half taller than her, he was not fat but thick in his arms, chest, and neck. Even the pistol he pointed at her looked burly.
“Whisper a breath o’ sound,” he said in a deep, quiet voice, “an A’ll shoot ye.”
She locked her lips shut. But they quivered. Her entire body quivered. If Mr. Yale were to glance her way, he would see her standing unnaturally like a statue and come to her rescue. But he was asleep from too much liquor. And if he came running then the man would shoot him, for this must certainly be the Highland Scot who was as strong as a Dover dockworker.
She nodded, pleading instead with her eyes to be allowed speech.
“Ye’ll go inta those woods nou.” He gestured with the pistol. “Ye’ll remain there until A tell ye ta come out.”
“I won’t,” she whispered.
He cocked the pistol.
That it had not been cocked before took some of the edge off the rush of fear that accompanied the clicking sound. But she really should have screamed. She should have run. She was a complete failure as a heroine, and now her hero would be killed. “I won’t,” she repeated with as much volume as she could muster; fear choked her throat. “You are the man following Mr. Yale, aren’t you? Mr. Eads?”
Interest lit his dark eyes. His skin was tanned by the sun, the hair beneath his hat dark and long. He was clean-shaven and well-dressed, and except for his accent spoke like a cultivated Englishman. He must be a gentleman of sorts.
That notion opened her throat a bit. “I won’t go,” she rasped.
From the edge of the woods came the unmistakable click of another pistol cocking.
“Miss Lucas, do oblige me by removing to the carriage at this time.”
Mr. Eads went perfectly still.
“Yale
.
”
The single word conveyed anger and threat at once.
“Good day, Eads. I would bow to you but it would ruin my aim, and in any case if you even flinch,
mein tumhe maar daaloonga
.” He stood in the shadow of trees. “But I should rather not do so in the presence of a lady. Miss Lucas, if you will?”
“No. Was that Scottish? What did you just say?”
“Lass,” the giant rumbled, “tell him ta lay down the pistol nou.”
“No. You have evil designs upon him and I will not allow you to see them through.”
“Evil designs he brought upon himself.” He seemed very certain of that. Diantha’s heart leaped from a gallop into a careen. “Nou, tell him ta lay down the pistol.”
She scrambled for words. “Well, who hasn’t brought bad fortune upon themselves at one time or another?”
“Eads, lower your weapon and release the hammer. Carefully.” Mr. Yale’s voice had dropped.
“Ye told her ma name.” Mr. Eads studied her with his dark eyes. “Ye willna allow her ta be harmed, A think.”
“Ah, the mountain pauses to think. This is something of a surprise, I shall admit.”
“Ye imagine the Raven is the only man to think in the midst of action?”
“The
Raven
?”
“Madam, if you would step away from the man pointing a pistol at you, that would uncomplicate matters considerably.” His voice was so smooth she knew he could not be inebriated. The breeze fluttered in the tails of his coat and the lock of black hair across his brow, but his hand pointing the pistol at the Highlander did not waver.
She must not allow this.
“Mr. Eads, do you have a Christian name?” she blurted out.
He frowned.
“A first name,” she explained. “So that I may speak to you as a friend of sorts.”
He didn’t look away from her. “What is this, Yale? What trick are ye playing?”
“No trick to speak of. She does this. Befriends people.” He sounded perfectly at ease. “It is one of her many charms.”
Diantha did not take her eyes off the tower of man. “I suspect Mr. Yale is being sarcastic, but—”
“I am not.”
“But I should like to know the Christian name of the man who will murder me. Because you see, Mr. Eads, I shan’t allow you to kill him.”
His gaze flickered over her gown then back to her hair. “No even ta save yer life?”
“Of course not. What would my life be worth if I allowed another to die so that I could live? But more to the point, I have need of him at present. You see, four years ago my mother ran away from home, abandoning me with my young sister and going off to live in a brothel.” A brothel from which, she realized quite abruptly, she did not wish to retrieve Lady Carlyle. “I—I am determined to—to find her.” Her heart pounded. That
was
what she wanted, after all, to see her mother and speak with her,
not
however to be thrown back into the daily misery of life with her. Somehow contemplating the potential end of her existence presently, amidst the shimmering glow of an adventure both dangerous and delicious, this became very clear to her.
“Despite my stepfather’s objections I have set off on this road to find her,” she continued a bit less steadily. “But, being unfamiliar with the route, I require assistance, and Mr. Yale has pledged to render it to me. So, you see”—she could hear her voice growing stronger with each word—“if you kill him I shall be destitute, not to mention rather desperate, for I have only a fortnight to find my mother again before I am discovered by my family and sent home probably to be locked away for the remainder of my life for having done such a scandalous thing. In any case, I simply must go. Therefore, you and Mr. Yale must settle your differences in some manner today that is not killing each other.” She glanced at her traveling companion then back at the giant. “Do you both completely understand?”
To her utter astonishment, Mr. Eads lowered his pistol. The weapon made a soft metallic sound as he released the hammer. Diantha didn’t dare breathe.
“Wise man.” Mr. Yale walked forward, pistol still pointed at the Scot’s chest.
Mr. Eads’s square jaw locked and he slewed his gaze aside. “Damn ye, Yale.”
“Already taken care of, old chap.”
She darted glances between the two. Their eyes looked deadly.