A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 10

THE QUESTION HADN’T, UNTIL THAT MOMENT, OCCURRED to her, but now he’d uttered it, the answer, she realized, was in fact No.

However…she drew in a deep breath, focused on his face. “This is not possible. You can’t just sleep here, in my room.”

“I grant you this chair isn’t the most comfortable bed”-he shifted his shoulders-“but I’ve slept in far worse. I’ll manage.” Putting his head back, he closed his eyes. “Where’s Nicholas’s room?”

“In the other wing. You can’t stay here-if you insist on guarding me, I’ll lock my door, and you can sleep in the next room.”

“The lock on your door’s too easy to pick-I looked. If I’m next door and Nicholas is good at this game, I’ll never hear him. Get into bed and go to sleep.”

The sheer command in his voice had her turning back to the bed before she caught herself; exasperated, she swung around and, seeing his eyes were closed, marched up to the chair. “Charles. No. Wake up.” She put a hand to his shoulder. “This is simply-”

He moved.

She landed in his lap. Swallowed her shriek.

“I did tell you to get into bed.”

His arms came around her.

Planting her hands on his shoulders, she tried to hold him off-tried to stop him from drawing her to him. “Don’t you dare kiss me!”

From a distance of inches, his eyes met hers. A fraught second passed, then one black brow arched. “Or you’ll what?” His voice had dropped an octave. “Scream?”

She blinked at him.

He closed the distance, closed his lips over hers.

He kissed her. Not as before but as he never had before.

Ravenously. With a hunger, a need, that simply slayed her. That poured through her, vanquished any resistance she might have made, vaporized any wish to do anything other than gather to her that greedy, rapacious, devastatingly desperate need, and appease it.

Her hands rose; she wrapped them about his head, clung rather than pushed him away. Held on until she found her feet in the welling, surging tide. Until she could meet him and kiss him back-give all he so flagrantly wanted, take all he so blatantly offered in exchange.

Their mouths melded; their tongues dueled. Heat flared and raced under their skins.

Sexual awareness awoke; she had nothing on beneath her lawn nightgown. The realization only fired her more, anticipation flashing like lightning down her nerves-neither modesty nor caution rose to cool her ardor.

Nothing, she was sure, could cool his; he was like a living flame, burning for her. She spread her palms over his chest, through the fine linen of his shirt drank in the pulsing heat of him.

Like before, yet not. He’d been twenty then, not a boy yet a mere shadow of the man he now was. What he now was held more than fascination, was more than enthralling. To her, he was life, all she’d denied herself for so long, all she’d forced her lonely self to do without-and he was here, potent, powerful, and so clearly hers if she wished.

He was temptation incarnate, at least to her.

She wasn’t even aware of undoing the buttons down the front of his shirt, yet the instant it fell open, she wrenched the halves apart and spread voracious hands over his burning skin.

Traced the taut muscles, fingertips curling, sinking in.

She sighed with satisfaction, felt giddy delight surge as through their kiss she sensed his groan. Sensed his pleasure. She pandered to both-his and hers-and let the sensations pour through her.

She was unaware he was opening her nightgown until his hand closed over her bare breast, skin to naked skin. Something leapt within her; for one instant, she thought it was fear, then she recognized it as excitement.

He caressed, artfully stirred her senses, and excitement heightened to anticipation. Anticipation that grew with every sweep of his fingertips, every whorling caress, until her nerves were tight, and anticipation edged into desire, and desire became edged with need.

She gasped, pulled back from the kiss, had to; she needed to breathe. He let her lean back against his arm and catch her breath.

His lips traced her jaw, then dipped beneath to follow the long line of her throat. They skated into the hollow between her collarbones, pressed heat into her veins, then drifted lower.

Over the full curve of her breast, to just lightly, oh so lightly brush the aching peak. Then with his tongue, he traced the same path; when he reached the end, she heard a shocked gasp and realized it was hers.

Realized her fingers had speared through his black locks and she was holding him to her, arching in his arms.

He accepted her wanton invitation, caressing her with lips and tongue, following some slow, orchestrated score that ran in counterpoint to the fiery compulsion that seemed to hover about them, enfolding them yet not infusing, not driving them.

Not yet.

This was new, at least to her. She knew in her bones he’d traveled this road so often he knew every inch of the way. Yet last time he hadn’t known this, hadn’t known to linger as he was, stirring her in ways she’d never experienced, never even imagined.

From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, watched passion swirl through her stormy eyes and draw her lids down, watched desire fraction by fraction lay seige to her features, watched it color her delicate skin a soft rose.

If she’d returned to her bed, he would have stayed in the chair and pretended to sleep, but she hadn’t. She’d argued, and the fastest way to resolve the looming battle in his favor had been to kiss her. It was also the perfect opportunity to take the next step in his personal pursuit of her, a pursuit that with every night that passed took on a keener, hungrier edge.

Pressing the halves of her nightgown wide, he languidly feasted, let his senses drink their fill, let his eyes see, his hands possess, his mouth and tongue claim. As he’d imagined doing for years; triumph lent a subtle edge to his exploration, a hint of possessiveness creeping in to tinge his ministrations.

He was not so much surprised as reassured by her responsiveness. On this plane, she’d always been his equal no matter how little she knew it. He’d always known, an instinctive knowledge, one that had fired his ardor all those years ago; it still smoldered, unquenched.

One thing the passage of the years had taught him was a greater, more educated appreciation. The heated silk of her skin was a wonder, the dusky rose peaks of her swollen breasts a temptation he couldn’t resist. Dampening one, he rasped it with his tongue, then gently drew it into his mouth.

He suckled, lightly, then more powerfully. Her breathing fractured; with a strangled cry she arched in his arms, fingers tightening on his skull, tangling in his hair. He released her, caught a glimpse of her eyes, beaten silver beneath her lashes, took in her parted lips, her harried breathing, the rise and fall of those beautiful breasts-blew gently over the ruched peak and heard her sigh.

Lips curving, he transferred his attention to her other breast. She made no attempt to distract or divert him. Her breathing fractured further; skillfully he tightened the tension that held her, notch by notch, until she was quivering.

He had her complete and focused attention. If Nicholas had chosen that moment to walk in, he doubted she would have noticed. He would have; he’d long ago mastered the knack of leaving a part of his mind on watch while otherwise devoting himself to the woman in his arms.

This time, with her, his absorption ran fathoms deep; more than with any other, he wanted, needed, to learn, to explore. To know not only in the biblical sense, but in every imaginable way. To understand and be sure. His concentration was enough to block the ache in his loins, strong enough for him to set his own needs aside, wholly to one side. This time with her he had to get everything right-fate had handed him a second chance; he had no faith he’d be granted a third.

Having her as his-seizing that second chance he’d always craved-was now too important to risk.

She’d grown restless, urgent under his experienced touch-to his mind flying too high too fast, but she’d always been impatient. And, perhaps, given where they presently stood, not yet where he wanted them to be, a quick, uncomplicated end would serve them best.

Relinquishing her breasts, he raised his head, found her lips, and covered them with his. Plunged into her mouth, intending to harness what little consciousness she still possessed and draw her back to earth-instead, he discovered she had her own demands to make, her own agenda.

Her tongue surged against his; her hands slid from his head to his chest, swept, lightly exploring, over the heavy muscles, then slid lower-and made him shudder.

Her unexpected boldness shook him, distracted him, and left him momentarily disoriented. He was the one in charge-in this arena, he always had been, always would be; he knew much more than she. Yet…for long, heated moments, he followed her script, just to see where it led.

Unwise, but he realized too late-realized that while his control had been forged over the years, hers hadn’t. She was still his implusive ange; her reckless play had only tightened the tension gripping her to an unbearable degree.

He heard the truth in her shaky gasp as she pulled back from a kiss that had plunged into desperation. Read confirmation in the tremors racking her, in the frantic pressure of her nails on his skin.

She’d journeyed too close to the edge.

Her nightgown opened to below her waist; pushing the halves wide, he bent his head to the furled peak of one breast, simultaneously slid his palm down, over her taut belly to the fine thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Brushing through them, he found and circled her slick, swollen flesh, with one fingertip caressed until she sobbed.

Drawing her tightly furled nipple deep, he suckled powerfully, at the same time stroked lightly, then increasingly firmly.

She shattered.

With a choked cry, she fell from the peak she’d so intently yet unexpectedly, he suspected unintentionally, climbed.

Cupping her mons, he felt completion sweep her, draining away the almost painful tension, blunting desire’s spurs.

She sighed, and the last of passion’s fury left her, and she relaxed, boneless, in his arms.

He blew lightly, soothingly, over her breast, then lifted his head, reluctantly withdrew his hand, leaning back in the chair the better to support her. He ached, yet all he wanted at that moment was to study her face, faintly limned by the moonlight; he’d never seen it as it now was, peaceful and serene in aftermath.

Long-buried memory intruded; he pushed it aside, only to have the thought that some other man must have seen her like this fill the void.

It was his thought, yet a faint frown tangled her brows; slowly, she lifted her lids and looked at him.

Puzzled. For an instant, he thought he couldn’t have read her look aright, but then she put up a hand to push back the fine curtain of her hair, and said, “That was…strange.”

Her voice shivered, quivered. She looked at him. This time her look was clear-she expected him to explain.

He stared at her. Disorientation wasn’t the half of what he felt; she was the one who’d climaxed-he was the one who felt giddy. But he had to know. “How many men have you been with since…before?” Since before when he’d botched things so thoroughly.

Outrage flowed into her face; she stared at him, then struggled to sit up, but she really was boneless. “None, of course! What a stupid question.”

Not stupid at all. He bit his tongue. She was an attractive, twenty-nine-year-old nonvirgin who he knew had more than her fair share of sexual need-what was he supposed to think?

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure at all.

Hands on his chest, lips setting, she tried again to sit up and push away. He held her easily. “Stop wriggling.”

She knew enough to freeze at his growl.

She frowned at him warily, but he simply drew her closer, settled her more comfortably in his arms. “Just lie there and go to sleep.”

Cradled in his arms, she stared up at him. Opened her lips.

“Shut up, lie there, and go to sleep.”

Her eyes narrowed, but after a moment, she shifted carefully and settled her head against his chest. The last of her fight went out of her. She muttered, “I’ll never be able to fall asleep like this.”

She did, of course, leaving him painfully aroused, yet content enough. Content that she was sleeping sated in his arms. He hadn’t planned the interlude, yet was more than satisfied that it had occurred.

Bringing her to her first climax was another role he’d never thought would fall to him, not after what had happened thirteen years ago. Yet it had.

Which left him wondering why it had.

As the moonlight faded and the shadows closed in, he changed his mind and did what he’d told her he didn’t want to do. He revisited their past, and tried to fill in the gaps to her present.

Penny awoke the next morning, warm and relaxed, snuggled in her bed. She remained where she was, eyes closed, deeply, oddly blissfully comfortable. The brightness beyond her lids informed her the sun was shining. It was another lovely day…

She remembered. She sat bolt upright and stared across the room.

Charles wasn’t in the chair.

She searched, but could see not a single sign that he ever had been.

But she hadn’t dreamed it; he’d been there-he had, they had…

She glanced down. Her nightgown gaped to her waist.

Muttering a curse, she yanked the halves together. Doing up the buttons, she tried not to blush as memories crowded in. She would have liked to lay the entire incident at his door, but, unfortunately, remembered all too well that she had, somehow, succumbed, and been a more-than-willing partner.

It was because it had all been so different-in many ways novel, the sensations so very pleasant and prolonged. Long, slow, sweet caresses-and he’d let her touch him, explore and indulge her own desires, too. So unlike that long-ago grappling in the barn-rushed, heated, frantic, and rather painful.

Last night, she’d enjoyed and consequently encouraged him far beyond what was wise; she couldn’t now blame him for how much further than a kiss the engagement had gone. She was loweringly aware that he could have taken matters much further, but hadn’t. Instead…

Her breasts tingled; remembered delight glowed, then flowed through her veins.

She’d never in her life felt like that-so desperate, and then so blessed. So amazingly alive.

And then he’d asked…

With another muttered curse, she kicked the covers aside, got down from the bed, and stalked across the room to ring for Ellie.

By the time she’d washed and dressed, she’d compiled a long list of questions she ought to have asked last night. Such as where had Charles changed? He couldn’t have gone home, so who else knew he’d remained at Wallingham overnight? Where were his curricle and pair-he had driven himself over, hadn’t he? How had he got back into the house? How had he left again, and when?

Most important of all, just what was he thinking? He’d insisted she leave his house so he wouldn’t succumb to his baser instincts and seduce her-and yet here he was, insisting on sharing her bedchamber.

She wasn’t naive enough to suppose that his baser instincts ran any less strongly at Wallingham than they did at the Abbey.

Sweeping down the stairs, she turned toward the breakfast parlor-and heard their voices. Nicholas’s and Charles’s. She slowed, considering, then picked up her pace and glided into the room.

They saw her; both made to stand-she waved them back. Nicholas murmured a greeting, to which she replied. She nodded vaguely in Charles’s direction; he responded with a polite “Good morning.” Going to the sideboard, she helped herself to ham and toast, conscious of the silence behind her.

When she turned to the table, Charles rose and held the chair beside his. As she sat, he murmured, “Did you sleep well?”

She’d fallen asleep in his arms. “Indeed.” She glanced at him as he resumed his seat; he must have carried her to her bed and tucked her in. “And you?”

He met her eyes. “Not, perhaps, as well as I might have.”

With a light, ostensibly commiserating smile, she gave her attention to her plate; she wasn’t going to comment.

Charles turned to Nicholas. “As I was saying, I haven’t been out on the waves since I returned last September, but I’m sure the Gallants would be happy to take you out sometime.”

Nicholas waved his fork. “It was just a thought-a passing fancy. Purely hypothetical. Why”-he paused, drew breath-“I’m not even sure for how much longer I’ll be here.”

Penny glanced up, startled not so much by the words as the undercurrent rippling beneath them. Nicholas sounded rattled, not his usual coolly distant self. Indeed, now she looked, he appeared even more tense than he had the previous evening, and distinctly more ashen. Of the three of them, he looked to be having the greatest trouble sleeping.

“Is your room quite comfortable?” The question was out before she’d thought.

Nicholas stared at her blankly. “Yes-that is…” He gathered himself. “Yes, thank you. Perfectly comfortable.”

Grasping the opening she’d unwittingly created, she looked at him encouragingly. “It’s just that you seem rather under the weather.”

Nicholas’s eyes flicked to Charles, apparently engrossed with ham and sausages, then returned to her face. “It’s just…I have a lot to do, and there’ve been more details to attend to here than I’d foreseen.”

“Oh? If I can help, please ask. I used to run the estate, so I’m acquainted with most of the arrangements.”

He looked uncomfortable. “It’s not so much any difficulty, as the pressure of what I need to attend to back in London.”

She brightened. “Elaine mentioned you were with the Foreign Office. Have you been there long?”

He stilled. “Ten years.” His tone was hollow, his expression grim and grave, his gaze fastened on some point beyond her.

She stared, then recollected herself and gave her attention to her toast.

Nicholas said no more; after a moment, he resumed eating.

Charles said nothing at all, but when he sat back and reached for his coffee cup, he caught her eye.

Interpreting that look with ease, she kept her tongue between her teeth. They finished the meal in silence. Rising together, they parted in the hall. She announced she would speak with Figgs about the menus. Nicholas inclined his head and declared his intention of returning to the library.

Charles halted beside her, waited until they heard the library door shut. “I’m going to the folly-come up when you’re finished with Figgs.” He caught her gaze. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything more to Nicholas. I’ll explain later.”

He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and, with an arrogant nod, left her.

She let out an exasperated breath. Obviously, she’d missed something. What had he done?

The fastest way to find out was to finish her household duties; turning on her heel, she marched off to find Figgs.

An hour and a half later, she toiled up the grassed slope of the long sweep of man-made bank on which the folly stood.

She knew why Charles had chosen to lurk there; she’d often wondered what had prompted her great-great-grandfather to create the bank and the folly itself, screened by trees from the house-any part of the house-yet commanding unrestricted views over both the front drive and forecourt as well as the stable yard and the area between it and the house.

If one wanted to keep an unobtrusive watch on all arrivals and departures, the folly was the place from which to do it.

In true folly style, it was fanciful in appearance, designed to look like a carousel. The rear was actually set into the escarpment behind it, but viewed from the front it was all graceful, ornate arches and delicately worked pillars, the roof rising to a point like a conical hat with a gilded ball atop it. In white-painted wood on a stone foundation, the structure exuded a fairy-tale lightness but was in fact quite solid, with a scrollwork balustrade filling in the arches, forming a deep semicircular porch, open but protected from the elements. Beyond the porch was a room created by glass panes set between the slender columns that, had it been a carousel, would have supported seats for riders.

The inner room, big enough to accommodate a chaise and two chairs with a low table between, was well lit, courtesy of a ring of windows set into the folly roof.

From their earliest years, she and Charles had taken refuge in the folly often. Memories circled as she climbed the wide steps and stepped onto the tiled floor.

As she’d expected, he was sitting in his usual masculine sprawl on one of the wicker chaises on the porch. It was where people most often sat; the inner room was used only in inclement weather.

The day was fine, the faint breeze off the Channel barely ruffling his black locks as she walked toward him. His gaze flicked to her, but then he returned to his contemplation of the house’s approaches.

He was frowning, brooding. As she sat beside him, grateful that he shifted and gave her more space, she read enough in his face, his pose, to know he was brooding over something to do with his investigation.

Not to do with her.

That, she decided, was a very good thing. Instead of learning from experience and steeling themselves against him, against the effects of his nearness, her witless senses were doing the opposite. Now she’d fallen asleep in his arms and survived-more, had been unexpectedly entertained-her defenses against him seemed to be melting away, fading like ghosts into the woodwork as if convinced she had nothing to fear from him-and even more, everything to gain. To look forward to…

Jerking her wits from that dangerous track, one she remained determined to avoid, she forced her mind to focus. “What upset Nicholas?”

Charles’s gaze remained fixed on the view. “I mentioned, by way of passing on local news, that a young fisherman, apparently a friend of Granville’s, had been found foully murdered.”

“How did Nicholas react?”

“He turned green.”

She frowned. “He was shocked?”

Charles hesitated, then said, “Yes, and no. That’s what’s bothering me. I’d take an oath he didn’t know Gimby was dead. I still don’t think he’d met Gimby-I don’t think he knew his name. But he wasn’t surprised to learn Granville had a fisherman as a close associate. Gimby’s existence didn’t surprise Nicholas, but the news of the lad’s demise and the manner of it shook him badly.” After a moment, he added, “If I had to define the primary emotion the news evoked in Nicholas, I’d say it was fear.”

She stared unseeing at the landscape. “Where does that lead us?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Nicholas came here asking after Granville’s associate-he at least knew enough to guess there was one. There are two reasons he could have had for searching for Gimby-either to ensure his silence now the war is over, or to use him again to make contact with the French because something new has come up.”

“If Nicholas had located or heard of Gimby, and sent some henchman to…” She frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Indeed. Neither of Nicholas’s reasons would call for Gimby to be killed unless Gimby had been trying his hand at blackmail, and not only is there no evidence nor even much likelihood of that, if Nicholas had desired Gimby’s death, he wouldn’t have been shocked and shaken to hear of it.”

“But he was…you don’t think it was an act?”

“No act. Nicholas might have perfected a diplomatic straight face, but it’s under severe strain and crumbling. You saw it yourself-he was visibly upset.”

“So he’s frightened…of someone else.”

Grimly, Charles nodded. “Someone else, and that someone isn’t under Nicholas’s control. He’s not a henchman. If Nicholas had learned of Gimby and sent someone to treat with him for his silence, and something had gone wrong ending in Gimby’s death and Nicholas hadn’t heard about it until I told him, he might have been shocked, perhaps a little shaken, but I can’t see any reason for fear. He’d have been calculating where that left him, and feeling free of Gimby’s threat. Yet I detected not a glimmer of satisfaction-he was appalled, and struggling to hold himself together, to not show that the news meant anything to him.”

Penny humphed.

Leaning forward, Charles rested his elbows on his thighs. “There’s someone else involved. Someone acting independently of Nicholas. Some other player in the game.”

He’d suspected as much when he’d stood looking down at Gimby’s broken body. He’d hoped it was Nicholas’s work; he was now convinced it wasn’t.

“Does Nicholas know who this other person is?”

The crucial question. “I don’t know-at present there’s nothing to say either way.”

Penny glanced at him; from the corner of his eye he saw her gaze flit over his hunting jacket, note his cravat, then rise to his freshly shaved chin. He’d ridden home at dawn, bathed, changed, attended to business, then ridden back in time to shake Nicholas over breakfast.

“Have you heard anything from London?”

“No-it’ll be tomorrow at the earliest.” He straightened. “Filchett knows to send word to Norris if anything arrives unexpectedly, but I’ll go back every morning to check. I’ve alerted both my stablemen and yours to ferry any messages that might arrive to me.” He glanced at her, lips curving. “There are some benefits to being a mysterious war hero.”

“Hmm.” She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, over the gardens. “That leaves us with this unknown someone lurking about-presumably he’s Gimby’s murderer. How do we flush him out?”

We don’t. He kept his lips shut, said nothing at all.

She frowned. “Perhaps we can raise a hare? Create some situation that would lure him out-that would prompt him, if he knows Nicholas, to contact him. Or perhaps”-she warmed to her theme-“we could start a rumor that there’s some secret something to be obtained at a certain time and place-”

“Before you get too carried away, we’ll need to wait on the information from London before we play any more hands in this game.”

His dry tones had her turning his way. “I thought you were the reckless one?”

“The years have taught me wisdom and restraint.”

Her humph was derisive; he hid a smile.

She glanced at the stables. “Do you think Nicholas will go out today?”

“If he’s feeling half as rattled as he looked, I doubt it-not unless he does in fact know who the murderer is.”

After a moment, she said, “It has to be one of those five visitors, doesn’t it?”

He hesitated, then agreed. “I don’t know of any local who would have known to do what was done to Gimby.” Except me. He stirred. “One of the five visitors would be my guess.”

“Which one? The Chevalier?”

“There’s no way to tell, not from the faces they show the world.”

“How do you expose someone like that?” She looked at him, searched his eyes. “And don’t bother suggesting that I just leave it to you.”

He smiled faintly, took her hand, idly toyed with her fingers. “I think he-whoever he is-would have hoped Gimby’s body wouldn’t be found, at least not so soon. Now it has, he’ll lie low for a time, a few days at least. Unfortunately, it won’t take long for such news to fade, then he’ll…”

She followed his line of thought easily. “What’s he after? What’s his purpose in this?”

He was silent for a moment as the possibility took shape. “Revenge. That would explain why Nicholas is afraid.”

They tossed around the possibility that one of their five suspects had somehow stumbled onto Nicholas’s scheme and was now bent on making all those involved pay. “Presumably because of lives lost-perhaps a specific life,” Penny suggested. “Like a brother in the army killed because of some secret that was passed.”

He grimaced. “That scenario calls for access to highly restricted information, but…it’s not impossible.” He was already formulating the queries he’d send to Dalziel. “It makes the Chevalier a more likely candidate.”

“Because he might have heard something from France?”

“I’ll get Dalziel to investigate his connections.”

They fell silent, each pursuing their thoughts.

He still held her hand, his own closed over it. She seemed unperturbed by that, engrossed in thinking of how to trap a murderer. He was alive to the murderer’s presence, sensitive to the villain’s proximity to her, the potential danger, but his chances of distancing her from the investigation were too slight to be worth pursuing.

She, however, was another matter. Not much would occur for a day or so. In that time…somehow he had to exorcise their past and steer their present onto the track he wanted it on. He hadn’t fully appreciated the potential between them, not consciously, years ago; he’d been young, naive, much less experienced then. But now he clearly saw what could be, not just for him, but for her, too-and he wanted that.

On finding her strolling through the Abbey at midnight, he’d unintentionally got close enough to reach over the chasm that had opened between them, and the opportunity to grasp what he’d always wanted-what he now desperately needed-had come his way again. He was determined to seize that second chance.

If he wasn’t the sort of man he was, and she the sort of female he knew her to be, setting aside their personal interaction, leaving any attempt to redefine it until after the murderer was caught, the mystery solved, would be the wisest course. But they were who they were, and when it came to them together, wisdom had never featured greatly. Witness last night. He couldn’t-wouldn’t-risk not being with her every night and through as much of the day as possible, and that being so, nothing was more certain than that they’d end as he’d warned her sooner rather than later-far sooner than capturing the murderer or solving the riddle of Nicholas and Granville’s scheme.

They were closer than they’d been for thirteen years, but he needed them to be closer still. He needed to know she was as safe as he could make her, that she would allow him to protect her and accept his protection, that if danger threatened, she would do as he asked-ultimately that she was under his hand, behind him, shielded to the best of his considerable abilities.

Between them, nothing else would suffice.

If he was to influence her in the direction he wanted-and influence was the best he could hope for-then he had to act soon; now was the time. This brief hiatus was the only pause the murderer was likely to grant them.

Tightening his hold on her hand, he turned his head and looked at her; when she met his eyes, he baldly asked, “Why haven’t you been intimate with any other man?”

She gaped at him. Eyes wide, she stared into his, opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. He’d half expected her to blush; instead, she looked stunned.

“What?” Her tone had risen, shrill and tight. She tugged her hand free-then held it up, palm toward him. “No! Wait.” She drew a deep breath, held it for a second, then calmly stated, “My personal life is none of your business, Charles.”

Her dismissive tone had him tensing; his jaw tightened. “What happened between us thirteen years ago is very much my business, and if that incident has affected you over all these years, then that, too, is my business.”

She stared at him as if he were a spider-a species beyond her comprehension. “If it’s affected me…” Her voice trailed away as she stared, but then her chin firmed, her eyes narrowed, and she snapped, “What the devil are you talking about?”

Gritting his teeth, he spoke through them; he was determined to have it out, all open between them, so they could put it behind them and go on. “Thirteen years ago, if you recall, you and I were intimate in that damned barn down by the cliffs. It was your first time, and I hurt you. A lot.” He narrowed his eyes on hers, ruthlessly forced himself to go on, “You were upset. Very upset. You refused to let me touch you again, then or later. You rushed off, and avoided me for the next several weeks, until I left to join the Guards. You wouldn’t even talk to me or let me talk to you.”

The naive hurt he’d felt welled up again, fresh and unexpectedly stinging; he thrust it back down. As evenly as he could, he continued, “I returned last year to learn that despite a string of highly eligible offers, you’d elected to remain a spinster. It was impossible not to wonder if what I’d done-what happened between us-was behind your reluctance to marry. And then last night I learned you’d never-”

“No. Stop.” Abruptly, she stood. Eyes like flint, she looked down at him. “What happened last night, what I said-forget it. My life is my own. I made my decisions as I wished. It’s none of your business-”

He swore and surged to his feet. “Of course it’s my damned business!” The barely restrained roar rolled away across the lawns; he forced his voice lower, pinned her with his gaze. “If I hurt you that much, caused you so much pain that you were so upset you’ve never let any other man even touch you…”

He stepped closer; her eyes flared, but she stood her ground, raised both hands and waved them between them. “Wait-wait!” She frowned at him. “Slow down-just go back a minute…”

Her expression said she was replaying his words…then her eyes widened, darkened, grew even more stormy. After a moment, she raised them to his. “Are you telling me that for all these years you thought I was hurt-upset-because of the pain?”

He couldn’t read her eyes. He frowned, sensing a catch in the question, but…drawing a tight breath, he nodded. “What else?”

It hadn’t occurred to her, but it should have. Penny dragged in a huge breath and swung away. She started to pace. “Don’t move. Just wait.”

He stiffened at the order, but did as she’d asked; just as well-she had to think, and quickly.

She’d always known what he hadn’t realized, that he hadn’t seen that she’d loved him, but she’d assumed he’d realized that her intense upset hadn’t been driven by something as minor as a little pain. When he’d spoken of hurt, she hadn’t thought he’d meant physical hurt.

Thinking back, she wasn’t sure what she’d thought he’d thought; at the time, she’d been so caught up in her own reactions, her intense disappointment, the dashing of her naive expectations-the shattering of her heart as she’d then thought-that beyond knowing that he knew he’d upset her, she hadn’t stopped to consider what he’d seen as the reason why.

He’d thought she’d been upset because of the pain!

She hauled in a huge breath, and swung to pace back to him.

Given he had, he was patently suffering from a burgeoning case of guilt, to which he was not entitled, and through that developing a sense of responsibility over her life, to which he was even less entitled.

Responsibility had always been a strong motivator for him, witness his devotion to his family and his country. If she didn’t act quickly to correct his thinking and dissolve any responsibility he was nurturing toward her life, they would shortly find themselves in a hideous state. He would try to make amends, she would refuse, her conscience would prick while her independence would kick, and he’d become ever more subbornly determined to put right his perceived wrong…it would end in animosity if not outright war, and that she definitely didn’t deserve or need. Neither did he.

She had to correct his understanding of the past, but without revealing the truth of why he’d hurt her.

Folding her arms, she lifted her head, and halted directly before him. “Very well.” She met his eyes. “As you’re so determined to revisit our past, let’s do so, but let’s get the facts correct. Thirteen years ago, I decided we should make love. Yes, you’d wanted me for years, but you wouldn’t even have suggested such a thing-I plotted and planned to meet you out riding, to inveigle you into the barn. Everything that happened that day happened because I wished it to.”

“You didn’t know how much it would hurt.”

“True.” She tightened her grip on her arms, and tried not to think about boxing his ears; he was so damned male. Holding his gaze, she went on, “However, I did know I was a virgin, and you”-she managed not to glance down-“were you. I wasn’t so ignorant I didn’t expect the experience to be attended by some degree of pain.”

“A considerable degree of pain.” His jaw was so clenched she was surprised it didn’t crack.

She shrugged, deliberately dismissive. “However one measures pain.” It had been more than she’d expected, but that hadn’t been what had hurt. “Regardless, it didn’t scar or scare me-I can assure you of that.”

His eyes remained narrowed, boring into hers. “You were hurt, upset-you almost cried.” He knew she rarely did. “If it wasn’t the pain, then what the hell was it?”

When she didn’t answer, he spread his arms wide. “For God’s sake-what did I do?”

The torment in his eyes-something he wouldn’t have felt let alone shown years ago-stopped her breath, stopped her from ripping back at him.

Lips compressing, she held his dark gaze. She couldn’t tell him the truth. If he ever learned she’d loved him…given their present situations, he might well press for marriage. He’d see it as an honorable obligation on the one hand and a suitable alliance for them both. And it would be suitable on many levels, except one.

She loved him still, and having to marry him knowing he didn’t love her would, for her, be hell on earth. She’d rejected her other suitors because they hadn’t loved her, and she hadn’t loved them. Now, after all her years of dogged independence, of refusing to marry without the love she craved, to be pressured to marry Charles of all men, and very possibly jockeyed into it…

Her eyes steady on his, she quietly said, “It wasn’t anything you did.”

Charles read her eyes, confirmed she was telling the truth. Confusion swamped him. After all these years, he was still at sea; he hadn’t understood then, and nothing had changed.

Except, perhaps, his persistence; this time he wasn’t going to play the gentleman and let her fob him off. Lowering his arms, he searched her eyes, casting about for some other approach, some other way to draw an explanation of what he didn’t know, and now desperately wanted and needed to know, from her.

Eventually, he quietly, evenly, said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

Penny blinked, thought back, fleetingly gave thanks as her temper sparked. She refocused on his eyes, studied them, narrowed hers. “What are you thinking? That what happened in the barn that day blighted my life?”

“Can you swear to me that what happened that day hasn’t stopped you from being with other men?”

“Yes!” As belligerent as he was relentless, she faced him down. “I swear on my mother’s grave that the events of that day in no way influenced my decisions regarding my suitors. Or any of the others who offered to seduce me.” Her temper soared. “You are so damned arrogant! It might interest you to know that sex and men don’t rule my life-I do. I decide what I want and what I don’t. Unlike you, I don’t need sex on a regular basis to be happy!”

Charles couldn’t remember when last he’d dined at that particular table; he clenched his jaw and held back a retort.

She glared at him, then gestured dismissively and swung away. “If you insist on feeling guilty for causing me pain that day, then do so, but don’t you dare presume to assume responsibility for any other part of my life. My decisions were and are mine to make, my life is and always has been my own.” She paced back, met his eyes, lifted her chin. “ I decide who I’ll let seduce me.”

He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then reached for her, pulled her to him, and kissed her.

As always, desire leapt to instant life; between them, the flames whooshed, then roared. Penny knew what he was doing, what track his mind had taken; so be it. She relaxed into the kiss, gave him back fire for flame; pointless to attempt to do otherwise.

He broke the kiss. Lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes. “Why, then? You’ll let me seduce you-”

She opened her lips.

Brusquely, he shook his head. “Don’t bother pretending-we both know you will. You’ll let me, but not any other man. All those years ago, you wanted me to seduce you, you encouraged me-and yes, I remember every tantalizing, fraught, uncertain minute. And now…” His gaze was so hard, so sharp, she wondered he couldn’t cut through and see her soul. “Now you’ll be with me, but not any other man. Why?”

Because, God help her, she loved him still. It took a moment for her wits to formulate a useful answer; she didn’t rush them. Drawing a breath restricted by their embrace, she didn’t try to escape his gaze, but calmly held it. “I told you. I decide who I’ll admit to my bed. Those others-none of them interested me sufficiently to warrant an invitation. Apparently I’m exceedingly fussy. You, I issued an invitation to years ago, and for some reason and certainly against my better judgment, the grounds on which I made that decision still appear to be valid.”

Something leapt behind the dark blue screens of his eyes; her breath was suddenly even shorter.

“Be that as it may…” Eyes locked on his, increasingly watchful, she tried to ease back, out of his hold, but his arms gave not an inch. “You shouldn’t presume on that previous invitation, not after all these years.”

As always with her, Charles felt…not quite in control. “Forget your previous invitation.” He bent his head, brushed her lips-just enough to refocus her attention on what was, still, burning between them. “Issue another.”

His voice had lowered of its own accord. He watched, following the battle within her, between physical desire on the one hand and a desire to escape it on the other. She distrusted getting caught, enmeshed in physical desire-and he was the only man capable of weaving a web strong enough to hold her; in that instant, he saw that much clearly.

It only led to the next Why?

Her palms on his chest, she tried to push back. “Your mission. You’re supposed to be keeping watch, remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He had no intention of letting her escape, her desire, his, or the strands they wove together. “If anyone comes driving or riding up, I’ll hear them. If Nicholas sends to the stables, I’ll hear that, too.”

“What if he goes out walking?”

“He can’t leave the house without walking on gravel-I’ll hear him.”

“He might creep out.”

“Why? He doesn’t know we’re here watching.”

She looked at him, thought, frowned.

He smiled, blatantly intent. “That’s check-”

“Wait!” She was starting to panic. “What about the reason you insisted I come home to Wallingham? It was so you wouldn’t seduce me-remember?”

His smile deepened. “So I wouldn’t seduce you under my own roof.”

Her jaw fell. “Your own…?”

“There are a few elements of honor not even I will compromise-that’s one of them.”

When she simply stared, dumbfounded, he lowered his head. “And mate.”