She’d had every intention of sitting between two other ladies; instead, somehow—and that she didn’t know quite how did not auger well—she found herself sitting beside Gervase on one of the small sofas set to form a semicircle before the hearth.
“Now, after the festival is formally opened—Reverend Maple and Lord Crowhurst will do the honors from the front porch—the first display to be judged will be the knitted works. Mrs. Juliard will be in charge there. We’ll leave twenty minutes for that, then…”
Madeline struggled to keep her attention on Mrs. Entwhistle’s tortuously detailed schedule of events, hideously aware of the large male body filling the sofa beside her.
She could feel the heat emanating from him, could sense the hardness of his long limbs, another subtle temptation…her mind slid back to those moments on Lady Porthleven’s terrace….
That kiss had been…something quite out of the ordinary, at least in her limited experience. Perhaps that was the reason her resistance to the notion of allowing him to try to seduce her wasn’t as strong as she felt it should be. Trying meant more kisses, but surely there couldn’t be any great harm in indulging her curiosity that far, if nothing else in the interests of her education and ultimate self-preservation; assessing just what, in him, she faced, what temptation he might bring to bear….
“Madeline?”
She blinked. Everyone was looking at her.
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Woolgathering. What did you say?”
Mrs. Entwhistle blinked; several other pairs of eyes widened. Madeline inwardly cursed. Since when did she drift off in meetings? She was usually the one keeping everyone else focused and up to the mark, ensuring all went smoothly and swiftly so she could get on with whatever was next on her schedule.
“The carthorse contest,” Mrs. Entwhistle said. “How may entrants do we usually have?”
She dredged the answer from her brain. “Eight, sometimes as many as ten. But over the last four years, there’ve been at least eight.”
“I’ll get Robinson to lend a hand with the judging,” Squire Ridley put in. “Truth be told, he’d be insulted if he weren’t asked.”
Robinson was the farrier for the district. Madeline nodded, then looked attentively at Mrs. Entwhistle—and willed her senses away from the distraction beside her.
That took significant effort, but she prevailed well enough that she wasn’t caught out again. She avoided meeting Gervase’s eye; whether he’d guessed the source of her abstraction was a point she didn’t need to know.
Finally all the arrangements had been approved, the schedule decided. Everyone rose and filed out into the hall, chatting and swapping the latest local news. Her mind elsewhere, she hung back, politely letting her elders go before her—only to recall, too late, that that would leave her with Gervase at the rear.
He touched her arm before she could sweep ahead. “I went fishing with your brothers this morning.”
She glanced up to see him considering those before them.
Then he looked at her. “Stay a moment—I’ll fill you in on what I learned.”
She could detect not the faintest hint of predatory intent in his tiger eyes. “All right.” She walked into the hall by his side, and hung back by the central table while he farewelled the others. Sybil went out onto the front porch to wave; Gervase turned to her.
By then she’d had time to think. She gestured to the courtyard, to where the ramparts rose. “It’s such a lovely day, why don’t we stroll outside?”
He glanced back through the doors. “The wind’s coming up on that side. The east battlements will be more sheltered.” He gestured to a door down the hall.
Inclining her head—ramparts or battlements, both were outside, and thus during the day subject to public gaze—she acquiesced and strolled beside him. Opening the door, he waved her up a narrow spiral stair. Lifting her skirts, she started up; he followed, closing the door behind him.
“Did the boys tell you what they’re searching for?”
With difficulty Gervase drew his gaze from her hips, swaying provocatively before him, and forced himself to look at her heels. “In a manner of speaking. They assured me they haven’t had any dealings this summer with the smugglers—a fact verified by the smugglers themselves—and then grilled me on all the wrecks I knew of, specifically where debris got washed ashore.”
“I trust you led them astray?”
He grinned. “That wasn’t necessary. From their questions, they’re concentrating on the reefs to the west, off Mullion and Gunwalloe. According to Abel Griggs—he’s the leader of the Helston gang—there hasn’t been a wreck there since last October, and if anyone would know, Abel would.”
She climbed for a minute before saying, “So there’s nothing for them to find, but they’ll hunt through the coves and caves anyway.”
They’d reached the landing before the door to the battlements. He came up beside her; studiously ignoring the perfume that rose from her skin and hair—and its effect as it wreathed through his senses—he reached past her, turned the knob, and pushed the door wide.
She went through, immediately lifting her hands to hold back whipping tendrils of her hair. Below and before them, stretching all the way to Black Head on the other side of the bay, the sea was pale, corrugated and frothed by the strafing wind. Although much less strong than on the exposed ramparts to the west, the capricious gusts that snaked their way around to the battlements were still strong enough to plaster her light gown to her body, to her legs.
Gervase considered them, then remembered what he’d intended to say just as she swung to face him.
“I suppose searching for treasure, even if they find nothing, will still keep them happy as grigs.”
“Actually, I’m not sure about that—at least not in Harry’s case.” Shutting the door, he leaned back against it.
Still holding her hair, she came closer, the better to hear him. Frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I got the distinct impression that the search is mostly Ben’s idea. Edmond’s caught up in it, too, but Ben is the primary enthusiast. Harry, unless I’m much mistaken, is going along because of the others, not because he has any real interest in the endeavor.”
Her frown remained. “He’s usually the instigator—he used to be forever on about joining the smugglers and doing runs.”
“Undoubtedly. But that was before.” Gervase paused, then asked, “He’s fifteen, correct?” She nodded. He grimaced wryly. “I remember being fifteen. I remember Christopher being fifteen.” He hesitated, then said, “A word of advice, if you’ll take it. The very last thing you want is for a fifteen-year-old youth to grow bored. And unless I read matters entirely wrongly, underneath it all, Harry is bored. There’s no challenge in his life.”
Her lips tightened; her gaze grew unfocused. For a moment she was completely still, then she blinked and looked at him. Studied his eyes for an instant, then raised her brows. “You have a suggestion.”
Statement, no question. “A suggestion, nothing more. He’s Viscount Gascoigne, and fifteen is old enough to start learning the ropes.”
Her frown remained etched in her eyes. “He never asks about the estate, things like that. I usually have to push to make him play the viscount, even socially.”
He couldn’t help a snort. “Madeline, the social aspects are the ones he’ll like least. Try him with some of the real work. Take him with you when you ride out, when you visit the farms. Start asking for his opinion—that’ll give him an opening to ask you to explain things.”
Again he hesitated, searching her eyes, pale, green, today remarkably clear. “Don’t wait for him to ask, because he won’t—he’ll see that as encroaching on your territory. If you’re ever going to hand the estate on to him—and yes, I know that’s your intention—you’ll have to make the first overtures. Always, with each aspect, he’ll wait for you to suggest he gets involved. Out of loyalty to you, he won’t push for involvement himself.”
&
nbsp; Her frown had evaporated, initially superseded by puzzlement that now dissolved into revelation. “Oh, I see.” After a moment, she added, “Yes, of course.” She refocused on him. And smiled—a glorious smile full of happiness and content.
The impact was considerably greater than if she’d boxed his ears.
“Thank you. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” The power behind her smile faded as fondness crept in. “He’s been so intent on rushing off, keeping himself busy out of the house, that I’ve hesitated to…well, rein him in and test him in harness, so to speak. But if in reality he’s chafing at the bit, then I will. Thank you for the hint.”
“My pleasure.” It was easy to smile back.
When he remained against the door, watching her, his smile still softening the hard planes of his face, Madeline felt her instincts twitch. She raised her brows. “Was there something else?”
“No.” His smile widened in a way she recognized well enough to distrust. “I’m just waiting for you to thank me.”
“I just did.”
“Appropriately.”
Her lips parted to repeat the word; abruptly, she shut them. She narrowed her eyes. “I am not kissing you again.”
His untrustworthy smile deepened. “How do you plan to leave here?”
Belatedly, she glanced around.
“The stair beyond this door is the only way down.”
She swung away and marched down the battlements; she didn’t need to go far to see that there was, indeed, no other exit—no door, not even a dormer window.
Stalking back to where he patiently waited, shoulders against the door, she halted a pace away. Holding back her hair as the breeze swooped past, she glared at him. “You are so…” Momentarily lost for words, she gestured wildly with one hand.
“Good at this?”
She uttered a frustrated hiss. “Irritating!” She felt like stamping her foot. “For heaven’s sake—”
Gervase leaned forward, grasped her waist, lifted her to him, then let her fall against him.
With a smothered squeak she did, her long limbs flush against his, her breasts to his chest, her hips to his upper thighs.
Every nerve, every muscle in his body snapped to attention. Including…
Something she, plastered against him, couldn’t possibly mistake. He saw her eyes widen. He smiled—intently. “Just so.”
He bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips had parted in shock; he took immediate advantage and claimed her mouth. Claimed, tasted, plundered just a little before settling to entice.
She didn’t physically struggle—her body remained passive in his arms, instinctively accepting his embrace—but she battled nonetheless, fighting doggedly and valiantly to hold aloof.
His lips on hers, his tongue stroking hers, his instincts pressed him to wage war against her—against her will, weakening it so her desire could triumph, and she would surrender and be willingly his. Yet as he angled his head over hers and engaged with her more definitely, he was strangely aware of a dichotomy within, of his warrior’s instinct—a primal conviction that he had every right to claim the woman in his arms—clashing with an equally insistent sense that with her he needed to be giving. To persuade and negotiate, not force and insist.
He didn’t want to rule her; he wanted her by his side, a willing partner, a helpmate—his wife.
The thought slid through his mind, gentled his approach—and all but instantly delivered a reward. Her resistance wavered; immediately he set himself to tempt her more, to beckoningly tease, to seduce in earnest.
Her lips softened, then returned the pressure of his—more impulse than considered action—but then she realized, froze for a heartbeat—then gave up. Gave in. Stopped fighting and joined him.
Her sudden change of tack—not capitulation so much as embracing the inevitable—left him momentarily adrift, mentally scrambling to adjust his strategy, then her hands, until then pressed against his upper chest, slid up to his shoulders, gripped, then one eased and slid to his nape, then further into his hair, fingers twisting, lightly gripping…an evocative urging his instincts needed no help to translate.
He responded, more driven than deliberate, yielding to her demand and letting their mouths meld, their tongues tangle in a more flagrant, more explicit engagement than any he’d planned.
She met him, was with him, through the greedy, heated caress. Urged him on with a small gasp when he broke the kiss, sliding his lips to the hollow beneath her ear while his chest swelled and he dragged in a breath.
But then he returned to her mouth, too hungry, not yet appeased—any more than she was.
Her lips were lush, hot, demanding, the slick cavern of her mouth a sensual haven as she welcomed him back. He sank deep, and she pressed against him, into him.
He no longer needed to hold her to him; releasing his until-then-immovable grip on her waist, he spread his hands and pressed his palms to her back, without conscious thought satisfying his need to learn—of every curve, every long plane, each supple muscle, each delectable swell of female flesh.
Raising his hands to the backs of her shoulders, he cupped them in his palms, then slowly ran his hands down, tracing the long planes of her back, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe swell of her derriere, sliding down and around to cup one firm globe in each hand.
She shuddered; he felt it, felt the primal thrill of it in his bones, through the kiss sensed her response, her uninhibited, unscreened wanting.
Sensed her desire rise to meet his.
Rise to swirl with, to complement, to mesh with his.
To set fire to passion and ignite sensual need.
Madeline gasped through the kiss. Never before had she felt like this—as if there were some thing, some being within her, within her skin, expanding, taking over, driving her to grasp, to seize, to embrace every second of sensation, of experience.
Of all she’d thought she’d never know.
She felt heated, nerves alive, her breath no longer hers but his—her body wrapped, trapped in his arms and glad, so glad, to be there.
Her rational mind couldn’t take it in, but her senses reveled and gorged. And some side of her she didn’t know frankly rejoiced in the escalating heat, in the compulsive, burgeoning swell of what even she, innocent and inexperienced, recognized as passion.
Hot, urgent, increasingly explicit.
Their kiss had grown wildly so, infecting his touch.
Infecting him.
And her.
So that she made not the smallest demur when one hard hand swept up her side to palm her breast. To caress, to cup, then to lightly knead.
Sensation, new and novel, flared, grew, spread molten delight just beneath her skin.
And he knew. His hand closed, more possessive; beneath the straining bodice of her walking dress, his fingers found the furled bud of her nipple and tweaked, rolled—and pleasure, sharp and sweet, sliced through her.
Breathing was beyond her. Raising both hands to grasp his head, she gripped, felt the slide of his curls, so much softer even than they looked, over her fingers as she held him and kissed him—hard—then in desperation pulled back.
“Oh, God—Gervase!” Eyes closed, she struggled to breathe. “Someone might see.”
“They can’t.” His voice was deep, gravelly by her ear as his hands, both now ministering to her breasts, continued to play. “No one can see up here, even with a spyglass.”
The fact he’d thought even of a spyglass reassured her completely.
Dragging in one last breath, she reached for his face, framed the long planes between her palms and brought his lips back to hers.
She was still hungry, still greedy for his kiss, his lips, and the sensations they wrought. For the reaction they evoked in her, the heretofore unknown side of her that came alive in his arms.
Gervase inwardly groaned, and complied, unable not to, incapable of denying her—yet he hadn’t imagined, hadn’t dreamed
she would be so demanding. So wanting.
So starved.
If he’d known, he would have chosen some other site for this encounter. His apartments, for instance, with the bed he intended her to grace close at hand.
Instead…they were on the battlements.
The increasingly wind-strafed battlements.
It took more than effort, more than steely will—it took desperation to drag his hands from her breasts, to grip her waist and shift, turn, so her back was to the door and he was before her.
Even then she merely kissed him again, her mouth a gift he couldn’t refuse. It took several minutes of heated engagement before he recalled—again—why he, they, had to stop. Halt. Now. Before…
Before matters got entirely out of hand and stopping became impossible.
When he finally lifted his head, Madeline discovered hers reeling. Her lips throbbed, swollen and slick—and still eager.
So damningly willing.
Hauling in a breath, irritated to feel a sense of loss that his hands were no longer on her breasts, she opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his.
They’d never looked more tigerish, their expression more intent.
“Have you changed your mind yet?”
The words, gravelly and low, laden with male desire, nearly made her shiver. Distracted with suppressing the wanton reaction, when she stared at him uncomprehendingly, he clarified, “About warming my bed.”
Her mind refocused in a rush. She blinked up at him. “No.” Her hands had fallen to rest against his shoulders. She pushed. Hard.
And he budged not one inch.
A very odd sensation skittered down her spine, novel and distinctly startling.
She was helpless, trapped between the door and him, between ungiving wood and the hard muscle and bone of his unyielding body. Never before had any man made her feel captured.
To win free she would need to cede…something.
She blinked, inwardly snapped free of that ridiculous supposition. “Let me go.”
She endeavored to infuse every ounce of her will into the words; she lifted her chin to give them emphasis.