A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 5

IMMEDIATELY AFTER LUNCH WAS OVER, CHARLES INVOKED the specter of estate business and took refuge in his study. He was the one who now needed time to think.

His steward, Matthews, had left various documents prominently displayed on his desk; he forced himself to attend to the most urgent, but left all the rest. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the volume of maps he’d carried in. Abruptly, he swiveled the chair so its back was to the desk, and he was facing the window and the undemanding view.

He had to find his mental footing, determine where he was and where he wanted to be-and then work out how to get there. Not, as he’d supposed, solely in terms of his investigation, but, it now seemed, with his personal quest, too.

He’d arrived at the Abbey three days ago with two goals before him, both needing to be urgently addressed-one professional goal, his investigation, and his personal goal, his search for a wife. It had been unsettling to discover that his way forward with both involved Penny.

Of all the potential ladies in the ton, he hadn’t considered her, because he hadn’t believed she would consider him. He’d always known that she could be his wife, that she could fill all aspects of the position without effort-if she would. He hadn’t imagined after the way they’d parted thirteen years ago that she might, but after kissing her an hour ago, he now knew beyond question that the possibility was there, and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance of turning that possibility into reality.

Possibility. He wouldn’t, yet, rate it as more. From the moment he’d stepped close to her in the upstairs corridor at midnight, he’d been aware of her response to him, that it was as it had been all those years ago-intense, immediate, always there. Over the past days, he’d known every time her senses had flared; he wasn’t sure she knew how acutely his senses spiked at her reaction, how sensually attuned to her he was.

Yet none knew better than he and she that that connection wasn’t, of itself, enough. It hadn’t been years ago; he doubted it would be now.

He needed to build on it, to pursue it and her, explore what lay between them, what might evolve from that, and where it might lead them.

In between pursuing his investigation.

That wasn’t very wise. Indeed. She remained his most direct link to the Selbornes’ scheme; he now had to deal with her on two different levels simultaneously, juggling the investigation and his personal pursuit of her.

Yet he couldn’t regret kissing her; he’d had to learn whether the possibility was there. He’d been tempted to kiss her in the courtyard at Wallingham, but it hadn’t been the right time or place. He’d pulled back, but when on their way from the stables she’d smiled at him and acknowledged she’d been right to trust him with her family’s secret, he’d been buoyed and encouraged enough to seize the moment, to learn if she would trust him in that other sphere, too. Whether there was a chance he could mend their fences even if he wasn’t sure what had flattened them in the first place.

Such uncertainty, unfortunately, was his norm with her. He was an expert with women; he’d studied them for years, understood their minds, and was adept at managing them-all except Penny. She…he was never sure how to deal with her, had never succeeded in managing her, and had long ago given up attempting to manipulate her-the result had never been worth the price. For one of his ilk, such complete and utter failure with a woman was hard to stomach, and somewhat unnerving; he was always alert and watchful with her.

But that kiss had answered his question. Not only had she allowed him to kiss her, she’d enjoyed it and kissed him back, deliberately and considerably prolonging the interlude.

Well and good. He’d cleared the first hurdle, but he knew her too well to presume too much. All he’d gained was a chance to progress to the next stage, to determine how real the possibility that she might consent to be his wife was, how real his chance to convert wish into fact.

He sat staring unseeing out of the window while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked on; eventually, its chiming drew him back, reminding him of the other challenge requiring his attention.

Swinging back to his desk, he turned his mind to his mission. There, at least, the way forward was clear. The information Caudel, an exposed villain, had divulged before he’d died seemed in essence correct; it was now up to him, Charles, to ferret out the details and hand them over to Dalziel. He was very good at ferreting; one way or another, he’d get to the bottom of the Selbornes’ scheme.

First things first. Reaching for the book of maps, he set it on his blotter and opened it.

Penny wandered the gardens, thinking, to her considerable distraction reliving those minutes on the lawn under the trees. Those minutes she’d spent in Charles’s arms. She could still feel his lips on hers, still feel the effects of the kiss; it had definitely not been a wise indulgence.

On the other hand, it had been fated to happen; that elemental attraction she recognized from long ago had been steadily building over the past days and would inevitably have led to the same culmination, somewhere, sometime. He’d been right to choose an unthreatening setting. Now he’d kissed her and his curiosity-if she was truthful both their curiosities-had been appeased and satisfied, presumably that would be the end of it.

She paused, frowning at a rosebush. It wouldn’t, of course, be the end of her susceptibility-that, she’d realized, was an affliction for life-but presumably they could now put their mutual attraction behind them, ignore it, or at least accord it no importance. That undoubtedly was the best way forward; that was what she would do.

His investigation had only just commenced; as she intended to be beside him throughout, getting that kiss out of the way had been a good thing.

She returned to the parlor. When Charles didn’t reappear, she muttered an oath, then rang for tea; when Filchett entered with the tray, she told him to follow her and headed for the study. She knocked once, barely waited for Charles’s “Come” before opening the door and walking in. “It’s time for tea.”

He looked up, met her gaze, paused as if considering his response.

Blithely waving Filchett to the desk, she sat in one of the chairs before it. She heard Charles’s half-stifled sigh as he set down his pen and shut her father’s book to make room for the tray.

He’d been composing some list; that much she’d seen. She waited until Filchett withdrew. Sitting forward, she picked up the pot and poured. “What have you decided?”

If he thought she was going to let him deal her out of this game, he was mistaken. Lifting her cup from the tray, she sat back.

He looked at her, then picked up his cup and saucer. “My ex-commander’s focus is on identifying who in the ministry handed your father and Granville the information we’re assuming they traded for the pillboxes. Making a case against your father or Granville won’t interest him; not only are they dead, but they’re also clearly not the prime instigators of the scheme. Your father never had access to government secrets; he remained in the country most of his life-no self-respecting French agent would have even considered approaching him.”

“You think Amberly was the instigator.”

He sipped his tea, nodded. “Originally, yes. You said your father started collecting pillboxes while staying with Amberly in Paris. However, Amberly retired seven years ago, and the passage of information continued until recently.”

“So the baton, as it were, was passed from father to son, both in Amberly’s case as well as Papa’s?”

“It fits. Especially with dear Nicholas hot-footing it down here just as I appear on the scene.”

She frowned. “Could he have heard you were coming to investigate?”

“It’s possible.” He set down his cup. “While Dalziel takes these matters seriously, not everyone in the ministries is so inclined. Many think that now the war is over, secrecy isn’t an issue anymore.”

“Hmm…” After a moment, she refocused on his face. “So what now?”

“Now…even though the pillboxes’ existence confirms that some traffic, presumably in secrets, occurred with the French, they don’t implicate Nicholas or Amberly, no matter that Nicholas clearly knows of them. I need evidence that specifically ties Amberly or Nicholas to the traffic of Foreign Office secrets-how I’m to get that is what I’m presently wrestling with.”

She glanced pointedly at his list. “You’ve decided on something.”

He hesitated, then reluctantly said, “I’ve contacts of my own with the local smuggling gangs-as you so perspicaciously noticed, I’ve used them on and off over the years.” Picking up his pen, he toyed with it. “I can see two reasons for Nicholas behaving as he is-either he’s trying to ensure that Granville’s and therefore his tracks remain covered, or, just possibly, he believes there might be some new contact made, or at least some reason he might again need to use the smugglers as a conduit to the French. Either way, he’s out there asking questions.” His lips curved, not in a smile. “I’m considering whether I should arrange for him to receive some answers.”

“Such as what?”

“I won’t know until I get a better idea of what he’s been asking. Is he really setting himself up as Granville’s active replacement, or is he merely trawling to learn which group Granville used for running the secrets so he’ll know who has to be kept quiet?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t heard enough to say.” Leaning forward, setting her elbow on the desk, she propped her chin in her hand.

Charles watched her face as she thought, watched her thoughts flow through her expressive eyes.

“Given we’re certain Granville and Nicholas were in this hand in glove, wouldn’t Granville have told Nicholas which group he used?”

He shook his head. “Secrecy is a byword among the fraternity. Granville played at being a smuggler for a good many years; he would have absorbed that lesson well. Unless there was some exceptionally strong reason-and I can’t see what it might be-I seriously doubt telling Amberly or Nicholas who his smuggling friends were would have entered Granville’s head.”

She grimaced. “That sounds right. He was as close as a clam over anything to do with smuggling.” Her gaze dropped to his list. “So what have you written there?”

He had to smile, even though the message she was sending his way-that she wasn’t going to let him pat her on the head and tell her to go and embroider-wasn’t one he was happy about. “It’s a list of the gangs that might have been involved. I’ll need to contact them myself. They’ll hear soon enough why I’m here-I need to make clear that neither I nor the government has any interest in them but only in what they can tell me.”

“What if you run into Nicholas?”

“I won’t. You said he visited Polruan two nights ago-I’ll start there.”

“When? Tonight?”

No point trying to prevaricate. “I’ll ride down after dinner. If they ran goods last night, they should be in the Duck and Drake this evening.”

She nodded; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Tell me about Amberly-how frequently did your father and he meet?”

She thought, then answered, telling him little he hadn’t already surmised. But his questions served to distract her. After ten minutes of steady inquisition, she stirred. “I’ll take the tray-I want to speak to Mrs. Slattery.”

He rose and held the door for her. She departed with the air of a lady with her mind on domestic concerns. Closing the door, he paused, then returned to his desk and his plans.

They met again over dinner; he came prepared with a stock of friendly familial inquiries designed to keep her mind far away from his evening appointment in Polruan. In that, he thought he succeeded; when they rose from the table, she retired for the evening, electing to go straight to her chamber. She didn’t even mention his planned excursion; he wondered if it had slipped her mind.

He returned to his study to read through the report he’d penned for Dalziel. He’d thought long and hard, but in the end he’d named names, accurately setting down all he’d learned thus far. Even more than his six collegues from the Bastion Club, he’d entrusted his life to Dalziel’s discretion for thirteen years; Dalziel had never let him down.

Even though they’d yet to solve the riddle of who exactly Dalziel was, whoever he was he was one of them-a nobleman with the same sense of honor, the same attitude toward protecting the weak and innocent. Penny and Elaine and her daughters stood in no danger from Dalziel.

Sealing the letter, he addressed it, then rose. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o’clock. Opening the study door, he called Cassius and Brutus from their sprawl before the fire; stretching, grumbling, they clambered up and obeyed.

Shutting the door, he strolled to the front hall, dropped his letter on Filchett’s salver on the sideboard, then went upstairs, the hounds at his heels.

Ten minutes later, dressed to ride, he opened the garden door, stepped outside, softly closed the door, and turned for the stables.

He’d taken three strides before the shadow glimpsed at the edge of his vision registered. He halted, swore softly, then, hands rising to his hips, swung around to face Penny. Clad once more in breeches, boots, and riding jacket, with a soft-brimmed hat cocked over her brow, she’d been leaning against the wall a yard from the door-waiting.

So much for his successful distraction.

He set his jaw. “You can’t come.”

The moon sailed free tonight; she met his eyes. “Why not?”

“You’re a lady. Ladies don’t frequent the Duck and Drake.”

She straightened from the wall, shrugged. “You’ll be there-I’ll be perfectly safe.”

He watched her tug on her gloves. “I’m not taking you with me.”

Lifting her head, she looked at him. “I’ll follow you, then.”

With an exasperated hiss, he dropped his head back and looked up into a nearly cloudless sky. She knew the area almost as well as he did; with the moon shining down, she could follow him easily, and in any case she knew his destination-because he’d been idiot enough to tell her!

“All right!” He looked at her again, scanned her attire, shook his head. “You’re never going to pass for a male.”

“It’s not a disguise.” She smiled-a light, relaxed smile as if she’d never doubted his capitulation-and fell in beside him as he turned and strode for the stables. “Everyone in Polruan knows who I am. They know it’s easier to ride astride than sidesaddle around here, and they’re not the sort to be scandalized by my wearing breeches. They’ll barely notice.”

He glanced down at her long legs, booted to the knee, sleek thighs occasionally visible when the material of her breeches drew taut, and managed not to snort. The smugglers of Polruan were no more blind than he.

Exercising rigid control, he managed to keep his mind from contemplating her anatomy-any part of it-while he saddled their horses, then tossed her up to her saddle. On her mare, she trotted out of the stable beside him. Inwardly shaking his head-how had he let this happen?-he set course south, over the moonlit fields to Polruan.

A small fishing village situated on the easterly head of the Fowey estuary, Polruan consisted of little more than a cluster of tiny cottages and the obligatory tavern in which the men of the village, virtually all fishermen, usually spent their evenings, at least when they weren’t out running some illicit cargo through the breakers just east of the estuary mouth.

Although the area was riddled with smuggling gangs, each had its own patch, its own favored inlets and coves. While the Fowey Gallants, who had taken their name from the local pirate raiders who’d been the bane of the French coastal towns throughout the Hundred Years War, were the largest and best organized gang in the area, Charles suspected Granville might have used one of the smaller gangs for making contact with the French.

As Penny had said, Granville hadn’t been a fool. The fewer people who knew anything of his business, the better.

They reached the Duck and Drake and dismounted. Charles gave their horses to a towheaded lad from the crude stable beside the tavern. Returning to where Penny waited near the door, he yanked her hat low. A floppy, wide-brimmed affair sporting a pheasant’s feather, it would pass for a man’s hunting hat at first glance. “Keep your head down and do exactly as I say.”

She muttered something unintelligible; he didn’t think it was a compliment. Grasping her elbow, he opened the door, swiftly glanced around as he propelled her over the threshold. Giving thanks for the poor light, he steered her to an unoccupied table and benches in one corner.

He released her. “Slide in.”

She did. As he followed, forcing her along the bench into the corner, she murmured, “Am I allowed to speak?”

“No.” He looked around, noting familiar faces, nodding to two. He glanced at her. “Wait here-keep your head down. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Rising, he went to the bar, a simple wooden counter balanced atop two old kegs. He nodded to the barkeep, who recognized him; taciturn but friendly, the man murmured a “m’lord” and drew the two pints he requested.

Charles didn’t bother chatting-that wasn’t how things were done, how business was conducted with the gentlemen.

The barkeep thumped two frothing tankards on the counter. Charles tossed him some coins and a nod, picked up the tankards, and walked back to the corner table. Setting down the tankards, he slid in beside Penny, pushing one tankard her way. Raising the other, he sipped, then let his gaze wander the room. And settled to wait.

Penny, gaze still dutifully cast down, peered into the tankard before her. She assumed it was the local ale; it had a foamy froth on top. Mentally shrugging, using both hands she lifted the tankard and sipped.

Choked. Spluttered. Coughing, she put the tankard down the instant before Charles thumped her back.

Blinking rapidly, clearing her watering eyes, she met his. “That’s…disgusting.”

He rolled his eyes. “It was only supposed to be for show.”

“Oh.” She wondered if there was any other drink one could order in a tavern, but decided against asking. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder; she could feel a faint tension in him, even though outwardly he appeared relaxed.

He said nothing, simply drank the vile brew, and in between stared into his tankard, or into space.

She pretended to sip, and wished something would happen.

More than ten minutes dragged by, then two burly fishermen at the table before the fire nodded to their friends and rose. Straightening, the pair studied Charles and her, then slowly came their way.

Watching from beneath the brim of her hat, Penny kicked Charles’s ankle.

He kicked her back. Since he’d been staring into his ale for the past several minutes, she cast him a narrow-eyed glare.

The fishermen paused by the bench on the other side of the table.

“Evening, Master Charles-ah, no, that’d be m’lord now, I reckon.”

Charles looked up, his expression easy, and returned the men’s nods. “Shep. Seth. How’s buisness?”

Both men grinned, showing gaps in yellowed teeth.

“Fair to middling. Can’t complain.” Shep raised his brows. “We was wondering if you was after anything special-like?”

Charles waved them to sit, simultaneously shifting sideways, squashing Penny farther into the shadows of the corner. She moved as far as she could, but he crowded her, his hip and thigh against hers, trapping her, his shoulder partially screening her even from the men settling on the bench opposite.

Both had thus far rather pointedly kept their gazes from her.

Charles signaled the barkeep, who came, wiping his hands on his apron. Charles ordered three more pints; Seth and Shep were clearly pleased.

He waited until the tankards were delivered and Seth and Shep had taken a long draft before saying, “You’ll hear soon enough for it’s no secret. I’m down here looking for information on meetings Granville Selborne had with the French. Before I go on, I should explain that I was sent to ask the questions because the government has no interest in anyone who might have helped Granville meet the French. All the bods in Whitehall want is to know how he did it, anything I can learn about who he met, and about any English gentleman who might have been Granville’s associate in such matters.”

Both Seth and Shep held Charles’s gaze, then both lifted their tankards again. As they lowered them, they exchanged a sidelong glance. Then Seth, older and sitting more or less opposite Penny, said in his slow, ponderous way, “That’d be Master Granville as was killed at Waterloo.”

The implication was clear; neither Shep nor Seth wanted to speak ill of the dead, especially one who had died on that bloody field.

Especially with her sitting there; she was perfectly sure they knew who she was.

She drew in a breath, held it, and looked up. “Yes, that’s right. Granville, my brother.”

Her voice, so much lighter and clearer than the men’s deep rumbles, startled them. Both Seth and Shep blinked at her.

Beside her, she felt Charles’s muscles turn to steel.

She could almost hear his teeth grinding, but both Shep and Seth deferentially bobbed their heads to her.

“Lady Penelope. Thought as it was you.”

“We’re right sorry about Granville-he was a good ’un. A real lad.”

She found a smile, lowered her voice. “Indeed. But we-Lord Charles and I-need to know what Granville was up to. It’s quite important, you see.”

Shep and Seth studied her, looked at each other, then Seth nodded. “As it’s you asking, m’lady, I guess it’d be all right.” He nodded to Charles. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but it wouldn’t seem right otherways.”

Charles waved aside the comment. “I quite understand.”

Only she noticed how clipped his accents had become. “So what can you tell us?” she prompted.

“Well, let’s see.” With considerable qualification, the two described how on several occasions over a period of years, Granville had asked them to take him out to meet with a lugger.

“Never would come close, but it always seemed the same ship.” Shep’s gaze had grown distant. “We assumed she was French, but we thought as how she must sail for those on the same side as us-Frenchies who didn’t like Old Boney. Howsoever, we never did see who Master Granville met with-he’d take the dinghy out, and the man he met would do the same. They’d meet on the waves like, alone, each in his own boat.”

“How often?” Charles asked.

“Not so often-maybe once a year.”

“Nah-not so often as that. P’raps once in two.”

“Aye.” Shep nodded. “Reckon you’re right.”

“Did he ever carry anything to give to the person he met?”

“Naught but once. I did see him hand over a packet, one time.”

“Letters?”

“Something like that. Most often, though, he just talked.”

“Speaking of talking…” Shep and Seth exchanged glances, then Shep continued, “That other one-the new lordling up to the Hall. He’s been asking after much the same, wanting to know who Master Granville used to deal with hereabouts. Who took him to sea.”

“Did you tell him what you’ve just told us?” Charles asked.

Seth blinked. “ ’Course not. He’s not one of us, is he? We couldn’t rightly figure why he needed to know.” Seth ducked his head at Penny. “Didn’t feel it was our place, what with the young master being dead and all.”

Penny smiled. “That was well-done of you. There’s no reason for the gentleman to know anything about Granville’s business.”

“Aye.” Shep nodded. “So we thought.”

Charles asked the last question he could think of. “Do you know if Granville ever went out with any of the other gangs?”

“Oh, aye!” Shep and Seth both grinned widely. “A real lad for the life, was Master Granville. Don’t reckon there was a gang anywhere about the estuary he didn’t run with at least a time or two.”

Penny smiled, albeit weakly. Charles treated Seth and Shep to another round of ale; with good wishes all around, he rose, tugged Penny to her feet, and steered her outside.

“I can’t believe it!” She and Charles, once more mounted, were trotting out of Polruan. “It sounds like we’re going to have to speak with every single smuggling gang.” After a moment, she observed, “That might not be a bad thing-surely someone must know more than the Polruan crew.”

“I wouldn’t wager on it.” Charles glanced at her. “The operation seems to have been well organized, and don’t forget, the procedures must have been set up by your father long before Granville got involved.”

He purposely hadn’t asked if the previous earl had been known to join the smuggling gangs; none knew better than he that those of the local aristocracy who ran with the gentlemen as lads had only to ask to be accommodated. On both occasions he’d had to rush home, the Fowey Gallants had answered his call with an alacrity he’d found disarming. They’d risked the might of the French navy to pick him up, and then later return him to Brittany, purely because they considered him one of their own and he’d asked. None of which he needed to explain to Penny; she nodded and trotted on.

Once they were past the last cottages, he urged Domino into a canter. On her mare, Penny kept pace.

They’d covered just over a mile when he slowed. Penny followed suit, glancing at him inquiringly; he signaled her to silence, and to follow as he turned off the lane onto a narrow track. A little way along, he veered into a clearing, halted, and dismounted. Stopping her mare, Penny kicked free of her stirrups, swung her leg over the pommel, and slid to the ground. She led the mare over to the tree to which he was tying Domino’s reins.

“Where are we?” she whispered, glancing around as she secured the mare alongside.

He looked at her. Instinct insisted he leave her with the horses, but he wasn’t sure that was safe-at least not any safer than taking her with him. On top of that, it was likely the reservations of the Polruan crew over speaking of the dead would surface there, too.

It hadn’t occurred to him, but her presence had loosened tongues far faster than his own persuasions would have.

He mentally sighed and reached for her hand. “We’re near the Bodinnick smugglers’ meeting place.” Bodinnick was a hamlet and didn’t boast a tavern; the fishermen made do with an establishement of their own. “I hadn’t intended stopping here, but as we apparently have to interview all the gangs, then as we’re down this way…”

Turning, he strode back to the track, slowing when she hissed at him.

She came up close, just behind his shoulder; her proximity made him feel a fraction easier on one hand, rather more tense on the other. Gritting his teeth, he grasped her hand more firmly and led her on to the crude hut almost hidden by bushes that the Bodinnick smugglers had built.

He marched directly to the plank door and rapped, a complicated succession of taps and pauses. The instant he’d finished, the door was opened; a ruddy-looking seaman stared out at them.

“My lord! Why, we’re honored! And who…” Johnny’s eyes widened.

“Never mind, Johnny-just let us in, and you’ll learn all soon enough.”

Johnny stepped back, waving them in with a flourish, his gaze riveted on Penny as she followed Charles across the threshold.

He scanned the faces that turned to stare at them. Many were familiar; the Bodinnick gang was one of the smaller crews in the area, but he’d sailed with them often enough in his reckless youth.

The procedure was the same as in Polruan; he donated generously to their drinking fund, accepted a mug, then told them of his mission. They, too, recognized Penny; bobbing their heads deferentially, they answered his questions in much the same way.

Yes, Granville had on occasion asked them to take him out to meet with a specific lugger that had stood well out in the Channel. The tale was the same; he’d always rowed out to meet a man who had rowed out from the lugger. In their case, no one could recall Granville handing any item over.

They also confirmed that Nicholas had contacted them in much the same way he had the Polruan crew.

“Setting hisself up as Master Granville’s replacement, insistent about it, too. Not that we’ve any contacts to give him, o’course, nor likely to have. ’Twas Master Granville himself always had things set up.”

They left having ensured Nicholas would learn nothing, but also having learned that there was nothing more to know.

Once they’d remounted, Penny using a fallen log to clamber up into her saddle, Charles headed for the Abbey. He was barely conscious of the fields they passed, his mind revolving about one simple fact.

They clattered into his stable yard in the dead of night. His stableman looked out; Charles called a greeting and waved him back to bed. Pausing to light a lamp left hanging beside the stable door, he led Domino into the stable; Penny followed, leading her mare.

The horses were housed in neighboring stalls; Charles set the lamp on a hook dangling from a roof beam, and they set to work. Penny unsaddled, as adept as he, but when she hefted her saddle onto the dividing wall between the stalls, she paused and caught his eye.

“How was it organized? Granville went out with the smuggling gangs, and the lugger was waiting. How did it know to be there?”

He held her gaze, then nodded. It was precisely the question he’d been wrestling with. “There has to be someone-someone who carried a message, or some way, some manner, some route through which Granville communicated with the French. We haven’t found it yet.”

Grabbing a handful of fresh straw, Penny turned away to brush down the mare. “So we’ll have to keep looking.”

He hesitated, but then said, “Yes.” He wasn’t going to stomach her “we,” but he’d fight that battle when he came to it.

They finished with their mounts. He went to help her shut the stall door. She headed out of the stall; the mare shifted, catching Penny with her rump, propelling her forward-into his arms. Into him.

He caught her against him, body to body, saw in the lamplight her eyes flare wide. Heard the hitch as her breathing suspended. Sensed surprise drown beneath a wave of sensual awareness so acute she quivered.

Her shoulder was angled to his chest, his left hand spread over her back, fingers curving around her side, his right splayed over her waist. He only had to juggle her and she would be in his arms, knew that if he did, she’d look up-and their lips would be only inches apart.

He hauled in a breath and found it almost painful. Gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, he steadied her on her feet and forced his hands from her, forced himself to set her aside and give his attention to securing the stall door.

He didn’t-couldn’t-risk meeting her eyes. With any other woman, he’d have made some rakish comment, turned the whole off with a wicked smile. With her, he was too busy subduing his own reaction, quelling his own impulses, to worry about soothing hers.

Not in the stable. That would be far too reminiscent, too foolhardily dangerous. If he wanted to persuade her to look his way again, that was precisely the sort of misstep he didn’t need.

With the door safely shut, he reached up and unhooked the lamp; she’d already turned and was ahead of him, walking out of the stable. He followed, dousing the lamp and replacing it. Crossing to the well in the middle of the yard, he took the pump handle she yielded without a word and wielded it so she could wash her hands.

He did the same, then they set off once more to walk side by side up the grassed slope to the house.

Except it was after midnight.

Except he’d kissed her the last time they’d walked this way under the spreading branches of the oaks.

She strode briskly along, sparing not a glance for him.

He walked alongside and said nothing; he didn’t even try to take her hand.

Penny noted that last and told herself she was glad. Indeed, now she thought of it, she couldn’t imagine why she’d allowed him to claim her hand over the past days, although of course he never asked. Far better they preserve a reasonable distance-witness that heart-stopping moment in the stable. She really didn’t need to dwell on how it felt to be in his arms, or her apparently ineradicable desire to experience such moments.

When it came to Charles, her senses were beyond her control. They had been for over a decade, and demonstrably still were, no matter how much she’d convinced herself otherwise. The best she could hope for was to starve them into submission, or if not that, then at least into a weakened state.

The oaks neared, the shadows beneath them dense.

It wasn’t the darkness that tightened her nerves.

She walked steadily on, no suggestive hitch in her stride, her senses at full stretch…but he made not the slightest move to reach for her, to halt her.

He didn’t even speak.

As they emerged from the shadows and approached the garden door, she quietly exhaled. Relaxed at least as far as she was able with him by her side. Just because he’d kissed her, almost certainly impelled by some typical male notion over seeing what it would be like after all these years, that didn’t mean he’d want to kiss her again. Her senses might be alive, her nerves taut with expectation, but he, thankfully, couldn’t know that.

He opened the door, held it for her, then followed her in.

The house had many long windows; most were left uncurtained, spilling swaths of moonlight across corridors and into halls. Even the wide staircase was awash in shimmering light, tinted here and there by the stained glass of the central window.

Peace and solidity enfolded her, unraveling her knotted nerves, soothing away her tension. Reaching the top of the stairs, she stepped into the long gallery. She walked a few paces, then halted in a patch of moonlight fractured into shifting splashes of shadow and light by a tree beyond the window. The master suite lay in the central wing; Charles and she should part company. She turned to face him.

He’d prowled in her wake; he halted with a bare foot between them.

She raised her eyes to his face, intending to issue a cool, calm, controlled “good night.” Instead, her eyes locked with his, dark, impossible to read in the shadows, yet not impossible to know. To feel.

To realize that as she often did, often had, she’d misread him.

He did want to kiss her again-fully intended to kiss her again.

She knew it beyond doubt when his gaze lowered to her lips.

Knew when hers lowered to his that she should protest.

She knew when his hands rose, slowly, unhurriedly-giving her plenty of time to react if she wished-just what he was going to do.

Knew it wasn’t wise. Knew she shouldn’t allow it.

Yet she did nothing beyond catch her breath when his hands touched, so achingly gentle for such powerful hands, then cradled her face. Slowly raising it, tipping it up so he could lower his head and close his lips over hers.

From the first touch, she was lost. She didn’t want, yet she did. She told herself it was confusion that made her hesitate, held her back from calling a halt to this madness.

All lies.

It was fascination, plain and simple, a fascination she’d never grown out of, and perhaps, God help her, never would.

His lips moved on hers, bold, wickedly sure; her lips parted, by her command or his she didn’t know. Didn’t care. His tongue surged over hers, and she shivered. Her hand touched the back of one of his; she wasn’t even aware she’d raised it.

Was barely aware when he angled his head, deepening the kiss, and one hand drifted from her face to slide around her waist and draw her-slowly, deliberately-to him.

She went, hungry and wanting, while some distant remnant of sanity cursed and swore. Yet it was she who was cursed, condemned always to feel this madness, this welling tide of unquenchable desire that he and only he evoked, and that he and only he, it seemed, had any ability to slake.

Only with him did she feel this way, did her senses whirl, her wits melt away. Only with him did her bones turn to water while heat rose and beat under her skin.

And he knew.

She would have given a great deal to keep the knowledge from him, but even as the remaining vestige of her consciousness noted that his skills had developed considerably over the years, she was aware that behind his controlled hunger, behind the skillfully woven net of desire he cast over her, he was watchful and intent.

He’d known thirteen years ago that she had been his; as his hands slid beneath her coat and fastened about her waist, and he drew her flush against him, it was abundantly clear he knew she still was.

Her breath was long gone; arms twined about his neck, she clung to their kiss as her breasts pressed against the hard planes of his chest, as his long fingers curved about her hips and brought them flush against his thighs.

He moved against her, suggestive, seductive. The feel of his body against hers, all masculine strength, reined passion, and wickedly flagrant desire, flung open a door she’d closed, bolted, and thought rusted shut years ago.

A living ache flooded her, deeper than she recalled, more powerful, more compelling.

She’d been so young then, just sixteeen; what she’d then deemed frighteningly urgent was, she now realized, a mere cipher compared to the compulsion she was capable of feeling, of the sheer wanting that rose and raged through her now.

Oh, God! She tried to pull back, to at least catch her breath-to think.

Only to discover he’d backed her against the wall. With lips and tongue he’d captured her mouth; he pressed deeper and feasted, lured her further, swept her into deeper waters until she had to cling to him to survive. Until her very life seemed to depend on it.

Until nothing else mattered. Until there was no life beyond the circle of their arms.

She felt unbearably grateful, unbearably eager when she felt his hand between them slipping free the buttons that closed her shirt. Then he pushed the halves apart, with practiced flicks of his long fingers stripped away her chemise and set his palm to her naked breast.

Her senses swooned. Her knees buckled.

His other hand slid lower, cupping her bottom, supporting her. Absently fondling as with knowing fingers he caressed her breast, captured her nipple, gently rolled, tweaked, then soothed.

Within seconds, her senses had totally fractured, unable to fix, to focus on anything, overwhelmed by the sensations of his mouth steadily plundering hers, heated and commanding, of his hand and fingers artfully pleasuring her breasts, already swollen and aching, of his other hand subtly exploring, molding her to him, of the heady, even more potent reality of his hard, heavy, aroused body against hers, surrounding hers.

Making her feel fragile, defenseless-so achingly vulnerable.

No-not again.

She dropped her hands to his shoulders, sank her fingers in, pushed back, and pushed him away.

He acquiesced, letting her break from the kiss. Letting her put a few inches between their lips, enough for her to drag in a breath and gasp, “Charles-no.”

For five heartbeats, he said nothing, his eyes midnight pools behind his long lashes. She realized they were both breathing quickly, her breasts rising and falling; his chest swelled against them.

“Why?”

Charles watched her struggle to summon her wits, felt considerable satisfaction in watching how much effort it cost her. Almost as much as it was costing him to rein in his raging need.

She licked her lips. “We…can’t. Not again.”

“Why not?”

She blinked, and couldn’t muster a single reason. That much he could read in her wide eyes, in her blank expression.

He bent his head, not to kiss her, but to the side of hers. Extended his tongue and with the tip delicately caressed the whorl of her ear.

Felt the shiver that racked her from her head to her toes. “Penny…” He breathed all his considerable persuasiveness into the word.

Yet he wasn’t surprised when her fingers tensed again on his shoulders, and she shook her head. “No, Charles. No.”

He hestitated, but he’d told her the truth-he could no longer pretend. He wasn’t even able to attempt it with her; blatant honesty was the only currency he could offer her.

“I want you.” He let the words slide, glide over the delicate hollow of her temple.

“I know.”

She sounded shaky, slightly desperate.

“You want me, too.”

“I know that, too.” She dragged in a huge breath, and pushed at his shoulders. “But we can’t. I can’t.”

With a sigh, he eased back, accepting that tonight he’d have to let her go. That he’d be sleeping alone yet again.

Not, he vowed, for long. He’d learned what he most needed to know, about her and him and where they now stood. Learned enough to know that he’d been right; she could be his salvation, if she would-with the right persuasion, she might consent to marry him.

She still wanted him as much as he wanted her. It was enough to start with; they could build from there.

Not, however, tonight. Making no attempt to conceal his reluctance, he set her on her feet and released her.

She stepped to the side, tugging her shirt closed, through the dimness met his eyes. She briefly scanned his face, then murmured, “Good night.”

He clamped his lips shut, thrust his hands into his pockets and watched her walk away, turning down the corridor and disappearing from view. Still he remained, listening, until he heard the distant clunk of her bedchamber latch falling. Only then did he let out his disgusted snort.

Turning, he headed for his apartments and his bed.

He stood very little chance of its being a good night.