The Ideal Bride

Chapter 13

Caro lay beneath Michael and exulted. His hard body, his heavy muscles and even heavier bones, pressed her into the bed; she didn’t think she’d ever felt so comfortable, so… simply happy.

So connected, physically and otherwise, to any other person in her life.

Tremors of excitement still racked her; aftershocks of glory still slid through her veins, leaving an indescribable sense of joy in their wake.

This, then, was intimacy. Something far more profound than she’d imagined it to be. Also a great deal more… primitive was the word that leapt to mind.

She smiled; she wasn’t about to complain.

For long minutes, they simply lay entwined, trapped in each other’s arms, both aware the other was awake, yet both needing to catch their breath, mental as well as physical. Slowly, the realization that he had guessed her secret, knew and understood it, intruded.

Staring up at the ceiling, she searched for words, for the right thing to say, in the end simply said what she felt. His head lay across her shoulder. Gently, almost tentatively, for such tender touching was still new to her, she riffled her fingers through his hair. “Thank you.”

He dragged in a breath, his chest crushing her breasts, then shifted his head and kissed her shoulder. “For what? Having the best time of my life?”

So he was a politician even in bed. She smiled, wryly cynical. “You don’t have to pretend. I know I’m not particularly…” Words failed her; she gestured vaguely.

He lifted his shoulders, caught her waving hand, then pushed back enough so he could meet her eyes. He looked into them, then drew her hand to his lips. Turned it and placed a scorching kiss in her palm— caught her gaze as he did, then gently bit the mound at the base of her thumb.

She jerked. Realized he was still hard and solid within her… no… was again hard and solid within her. Puzzled, not quite sure, she refocused on his eyes.

His smile wasn’t humorous, more forbearing. “I don’t know what Camden’s problem was, but as you can feel, I patently don’t suffer from it.”

The more she thought about it, the more obvious that last became.

As if to further demonstrate, he moved a little, rocking rather than thrusting. Nerves that a minute ago had seemed dead with exhaustion sizzled back to life.

He shifted over her again, settling on his forearms, one on either side of her. “Remember”—he kept the gently rocking motion going— “what I said earlier about taking two hours?”

Somewhat stunned, her mouth drying anew as, to her considerable astonishment, her body responded—ardently, eagerly—to his, to the promise in that gently repetitive motion and the rock-hard reality riding within her, she licked her lips, focused on his eyes. “Yes?”

His lips twisted; he lowered them to hers. “I thought I should warn you—I plan on taking three.”

He did. For three bliss-filled hours he held her captive in his bed, until they’d reduced the originally neat covers to a froth of silk and linen, a sensual battlefield.

On resuming their play, he spent the next half hour ensuring she understood that once was very definitely not enough—not enough to sate him, or her. While outside, the pulsing heat of afternoon forced even insects to drowsing silence, inside his bedchamber, intimately entwined with him on his bed, heat of a different sort drew gasps, moans, and passionate cries from her.

Until she tumbled headlong into glorious oblivion and he swiftly joined her.

He had no interest in any passive submission; when he stirred her a third time, the engagement extended into a journey of intimate exploration and discovery—for them both. He not only blatantly encouraged her to be as wanton as she felt, in her wildest dreams desired, but teased, even taunted her to go further, to forget any restriction she might have imagined might apply and respond to him as primitively as he did to her.

Not once did he seek to conceal his desire for her, not once did he fail to impress on her his hunger, the power of his lust, his driving need to slake it by joining his body with hers.

When at the last she convulsed in his arms, held tight against him as he knelt on the bed, her thighs spread wide over his, him sunk to the hilt within her, she had finally learned what mating was—a sharing of passions, a mutual giving and taking, a melding that went far beyond the physical, touching deeper things.

It was a lesson she had waited more than a decade to learn.

As she slumped in his arms, Michael let his reins slide and surged within her, racing toward the shattering release that with every rippling contraction of her sheath about his painfully engorged length beckoned. Her body, still thrumming, drew him on, pulled him over that glorious edge and into sweet oblivion.

He didn’t let himself sink too deep beneath the golden waves; couldn’t. Yet still he lingered, glorying in the feel of her body in his arms, in the hot wetness that so tightly enclasped him. Drawing the scent of her deep into his lungs, he let his hands soothingly roam her sweet flesh. She was flushed, dewed after their exertions, yet her skin remained a wonder, the finest, most delicate silk. He nuzzled the tender hollow between her neck and shoulder, drew his face alongside hers, feeling the springy frizz of her hair against his cheek.

Matters between them had shifted, not so much changed as grown deeper, developed in ways he hadn’t foreseen. Yet the changes had only made his ultimate goal all the more desirable, all the more precious.

Once his head had stopped whirling, he lifted her from him and laid her on the pillows. Eyes closed, exhausted, she slumped like one dead; wryly triumphant, he flicked the silk coverlet over her and slowly, reluctantly, left the bed.

Caro was dimly aware that this time he hadn’t joined her amid the rumpled sheets, that his large, hot male body wasn’t spooned around hers. Distant creaks, tiny rustles reassured her he was still in the room, yet many minutes passed before she could summon sufficient strength to lift her lids and see what he was about.

The sun was still strong, still beaming above the treetops, yet not by much; it had to be past four o’clock. Michael stood before the windows looking out at the trees. He’d donned his breeches, but remained bare-chested; as she watched, he raised his hand and sipped from the glass he carried.

His jaw was set. There was something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that told her something was wrong.

A sinking feeling assailed her. She closed her eyes… felt his hands on her, fingers sinking into her hips as he made love to her; opening her eyes, she resolutely pushed her fear aside.

If she’d learned anything about life, it was to face difficulties directly. Nothing good ever came from beating about any bush. She sat up. Her head spun once, but then steadied. She grabbed the coverlet as it started to slither down.

He heard the rustle, glanced around.

She caught his gaze. “What is it?”

He hesitated. The sinking feeling started to swell again, but then he moved, came closer, and she read enough from his face to know seeing her naked in his bed wasn’t any part of the problem he was wrestling with.

He halted at the foot of the bed, sipped again from the glass. She could now see it contained brandy. Lowering it, he fixed her with a steady, almost considering stare. Almost pensively said, “Someone’s trying to kill you.”

Michael had wondered how she’d react; his guess proved accurate—she started to smile reassuringly. Her lips curved, her eyes started to light—then the transformation paused. Faded as she read his face, and realized he was serious.

Eventually, she frowned. “Why do you think that?”

Inwardly, he gave thanks his marital lust had settled on an intelligent woman. “Consider these facts. One—that day when your horse, Henry, was spooked and you nearly came to grief in your gig, Hardacre found evidence that Henry had been hit with pellets, most likely from a slingshot.”

Her jaw fell. “What?”

“Indeed. There seemed little point in worrying you at the time—

Hardacre and I both reasoned it was some nonlocal lads larking about. Highly unlikely it would happen to you again.“ He nodded. ”And it didn’t. Something else did, or almost did.“

She blinked, thinking back.

He watched, then told her, “Those men who attacked Miss Trice.”

She focused on his face. “You think they were after me}”

“Think back. You were the first to leave the drawing room. If it hadn’t been for me arguing, detaining you in the hall until Miss Trice had gone out, and then taking you up in my curricle, you would have been the first lone female walking down the village street. And there wouldn’t, in normal circumstances, have been anyone close behind to aid you.”

Realization sank in, chilling her; Caro shivered and pulled the coverlet closer. “But if they were intending to attack me—and I still can’t see why”—she looked at him—“how could they have known I was about to leave, and that I’d be walking alone?”

“You’d walked there alone—reasonable to imagine you’d walk home alone, too, as, indeed, you’d‘intended. And the doors to the back garden were open—easy enough for anyone to have crept close and kept watch. ”He held her gaze steadily. “You made your farewells to Muriel, then headed for the front hall—the signs were clear.”

She grimaced.

He went on, “And now we have an arrow striking a tree in precisely the spot where you’d been resting a mere instant before.”

She studied his face, knew all his facts were true. “I still can’t credit it. There’s no point, no possible reason.”

“Be that as it may, I believe there’s no alternative but to conclude that someone, for what reasons we have no clue, is set on, if not killing you, then at the very least, causing you serious harm.”

She wanted to laugh, to push the idea aside, to flippantly dismiss it. But his tone, and even more what she saw in his face, made that impossible.

When she said nothing, he nodded, as if acknowledging her acceptance, and drained his glass. He looked at her. “We need to do something about it.”

She noted the royal “we.” Some part of her felt she should be bothered by it, yet she wasn’t. She wasn’t convinced, either, yet knowing he would be by her side in dealing with whatever was going on reassured rather than unsettled her. Yet… her mind rapidly took stock, then she looked up and met his eye. “The first thing we need to do is get back to the fete.”

They dressed; somewhat to her surprise, assuming their outward guise of tonnish lady and gentleman did not diminish the newfound sense of closeness, not just physical but more profound, that had infected not just her, but him, too. She experienced it as a heightened awareness of his body and his thoughts, his reactions; she sensed it in his gaze as it rested on her, in the light touch of his hand on her arm as they left his bedchamber, in the more definite, possessive engulfing of her hand by his as they threaded through the orchard.

Presumably three hours of naked play rendered reverting to any socially acceptable distance impossible. Not that she cared. Their new closeness was far more appealing, far more intriguing, and there was no one around to be shocked.

At her insistence, he harnessed his gig and drove her back to the fete in more conventional style. Leaving the gig in the secondary clearing, they rejoined the crowds still ambling about the stalls, now largely engaged in last-minute purchases and protracted farewells.

No one, it seemed, had missed them. Or if any had, none sought to remark on their mutual absence. Caro deemed that just as well; she had enough to do to appear normal, to keep a silly, far-too-revealing smile from her face. She kept banishing it, yet if she relaxed her vigilance, it crept back; on top of that, while she could walk well enough, she felt oddly exhausted, as if every muscle in her body had unraveled.

For the first time in her life, swooning delicately away—or at least pretending to—held considerable appeal. Instead, she applied her formidable skills to putting on a good show, chatting here and there as if she and Michael had, indeed, been present the entire afternoon.

Michael remained by her side, her hand anchored on his sleeve; although he was attentive to all those with whom they spoke, she was conscious that he was, if anything, being even more protective, alert to all around them as if on guard.

He confirmed that last when they moved away from the wood-carver’s stall, murmuring, “The Portuguese have left.”

She raised her brows. “The others?”

“No Prussians or Russians visible, but the Verolstadts are just leav-ing.” With a nod, he indicated the small group gaily gathering to one side. Together, they strolled across to make their farewells.

The Swedish ambassador and his family had been delighted with their day; they were effusive in their thanks and good wishes, promising to meet in town later in the year.

They parted; Michael again scanned the clearing. “No more foreigners, nor any of the diplomatic crowd.”

It had to be close to five o’clock, the accepted end of the day. Caro sighed happily, delighted that all had gone so well—on multiple counts. “I should go and help pack up the Ladies’ Association stall.” She glanced at Michael. “You can come and help.”

He raised his brows at her, but followed her without complaint.

Muriel appeared as they reached the stall. She frowned at them. “There you are—I’ve been looking for you for some time.”

Caro opened her eyes wide.

Michael shrugged. “We’ve been circulating—farewelling the foreign delegations and so on.”

Muriel somewhat grudgingly conceded, “They all came, as far as I could tell.”

“Indeed, and they enjoyed themselves hugely.” Caro was too happy to take umbrage; she was perfectly prepared to spread the joy. “They all sent their compliments.” She smiled at the other ladies folding unsold wares into baskets.

“And what’s more,” Mrs. Humphreys said, “they weren’t above buying things. Those two young Swedish misses were buying up presents for their friends back home. Just think! Our embroideries on Swedish dressers.”

A general discussion of the benefits of Caro’s novel idea ensued; she helped stack tray covers and doilies, agreeing that if she was in residence at Bramshaw when next year’s fete rolled around, she would consider hosting some similar dual event.

Standing a little behind Caro, Michael kept an eye on the clearing in general while scanning the thinning crowd. Eventually he spotted Edward and beckoned him over.

Stepping away from the ladies, he lowered his voice. “Earlier, someone shot an arrow at Caro.”

His appreciation of the younger man’s talents deepened when Edward only blinked, then returned, equally sotto voce, “Not an accident from the contest… ?” Reading the truth in his face, Edward sobered. “No—of course not.” He blinked again. “Could it have been Ferdinand?”

“Not personally. I doubt he’d have the skill and regardless, he’d be more likely to hire someone to do the job. The arrow came from the direction of the butts, but had to have been fired from within the forest.”

Edward nodded, his gaze on Caro. “This is starting to look very strange.”

“Indeed. And there’s more. I’ll come around tomorrow morning and we can discuss the whole, and decide what we need to do.”

Edward met his gaze. “Does she know?”

“Yes. But we’ll need to keep a close watch over her.” Michael looked at Caro. “Starting from now, and your journey home.”

He couldn’t drive Caro home; it would have looked too odd, what with Geoffrey, Edward, and Elizabeth all there, along with a host of Bramshaw staff—and the entrance to the drive was only across the village street. He did, however, keep a surreptitious watch from atop his gig, before, satisfied she was halfway down the drive, surrounded by numerous others, and no problem had occurred, he headed home.

On the one hand, he was thoroughly satisfied; on the other, anything but.

Next morning, he rode to Bramshaw House as soon as he’d breakfasted. Edward, seeing him striding up the lawn, left Elizabeth to practice the piano alone and came to meet him; together they went into the parlor.

“Caro’s slept in,” Edward informed him. A slight frown played across his face. “She must have been worn out by the fete—perhaps the heat.”

Michael suppressed his smirk and sat. “Probably. Regardless, that gives us time to revisit the facts before she joins us.”

Edward sat on the chaise and leaned forward, all attention. Michael settled in the armchair and recited the facts known to him, much as he had with Caro the previous day.

When, gowned for the summer day in a fluttery gown of pale apple-green muslin, Caro drifted downstairs after breakfasting—very late—in her room, she wasn’t at all surprised to hear Michael’s deep voice rum-bling from the parlor.

Smiling, still serenely, dreamily content, she headed that way, noting that Elizabeth was flexing her fingers in the drawing room.

Pausing on the parlor’s threshold, she saw Michael and Edward, both frowning at their thoughts; they saw her, and stood. She glided in, smiling easily at Edward, then rather more privately at Michael.

His eyes met hers; she felt the heat in his gaze. Calmly, she sat on the chaise, waited until they’d resat. “What are you discussing?”

Michael replied, “The relative likelihood of Fedinand’s being after something for himself, or having been sent after something for someone else.”

She met his gaze. “I have to own to great difficulty in believing that what Ferdinand’s after could have anything to do with him personally. He knew Camden, that’s true, but diplomatically Ferdinand’s a nonentity.” She looked at Edward. “Don’t you agree?”

Edward nodded. “I would assume with his background he’ll eventually step up to some post, but at present…” He looked at Michael. “I can only see him as a lackey.”

“Very well,” Michael said. “If he’s a lackey, who is he acting for?”

Caro exchanged a glance with Edward, then pulled a face. “I really couldn’t see him acting for anyone but his family, not in such a way—trying to seduce me, asking after Camden’s papers, arranging to have the Hall burgled, searching here.” She met Michael’s gaze. “No matter what else Ferdinand is, he is a member of an old aristocratic family, and Portuguese family honor is in some ways more stiff-rumped than English. He wouldn’t risk the honor of his house in such a way.”

“Not unless it was the honor of his house that he was seeking to protect.” Michael nodded. “That’s what I thought. So what do you know of Ferdinand’s family?”

“The count and countess—his uncle and aunt—are the only ones I’ve met in Lisbon.” Edward looked at Caro. “The duke and duchess are representatives of some description in Norway, I think.”

She nodded. “I’ve met a few minor members who hold lesser posts, but the count and countess are the two currently in favor at court. They’re close to the king…” She paused, then added, “Thinking back, they’ve been steadily advancing their position over the last decade, certainly since I first went to Lisbon. They were only minor functionaries then.”

“So it could be something that would damage their standing?” Michael asked.

Edward nodded. “That seems most likely.”

Caro, however, remained sunk in thought. When she continued to stare blankly at the floor, Michael prompted, “Caro?”

She looked up, blinked. “I was just thinking… the count and countess’s standing might be at risk, but I would have heard something from someone…” She met Michael’s gaze. “Even from the count or countess themselves.”

“Not if it was something horrendously damaging,” Edward pointed out.

“True. However, it’s just occurred to me that the count and countess are not the head of the family—and that position means a lot.”

“The duke and duchess?” Michael asked.

She nodded. “Ferdinand certainly gave me that impression, and the countess, too. I’d never met the duke and duchess before, not until this last Season in town, and that only briefly, but”—she looked at Edward, then at Michael—“I should have met them, sometime, at some function in Lisbon. But I didn’t, I’m quite sure of that.”

Edward blinked owlishly. “I can’t even recall them being mentioned.”

“Nor can I,” Caro said. “Yet if they’re the head of a house, and that house is close to the throne… well, something’s wrong. Could it be they’ve been quietly banished?”

A pregnant silence fell as they all considered the prospect, all wordlessly accepted it as a possibility.

Michael glanced at Caro, then Edward. “Which begs the question, if so, for what—and could that ‘what’ be in some way connected with Ferdinand’s obsession with Camden’s papers?”

“The latter isn’t hard to imagine,” Edward said.

“Indeed not,” Caro agreed. “Camden was in touch with virtually everyone. However, Camden would have placed anything pertaining to any sensitive subject in the official files, and they’re with either the Foreign Office or the new ambassador.”

“But Ferdinand wouldn’t know that,” Michael said.

“Possibly not. So that, potentially, explains his searching.”

Edward frowned. “It doesn’t, however, throw any light on why he might be trying to harm you.”

She blinked. “You didn’t seriously think… ?” Her gaze swept to Michael, then returned to Edward. “Even if these recent incidents are attempts to harm me, I can’t see how they could have any diplomatic connection. Especially not with Ferdinand’s family secret—that, whatever it is, most likely predates my time as Camden’s wife.”

Michael’s steady, rather stern regard didn’t waver. After a moment, he said, quietly but firmly, “That’s because you don’t know, never knew, or can’t remember—for whatever reason are not aware of knowing— whatever it is these people think you know.”

After an instant, Edward nodded decisively. “Yes—that could be it. In lieu of retrieving whatever it is from Camden’s papers, someone— presumably the duke if our theorizing is correct—has decided you might know his secret, and must therefore be silenced.” He paused as if turning his words over in his mind, then nodded again. “That makes sense.”

“Not to me,” she declared, equally decisively.

“Caro—” Michael said.

“No!” She held up a hand. “Just hear me out.” She paused, listening to the distant music. “And we’ll have to be quick because Elizabeth’s almost at the end of that study, and she’ll be along as soon as she’s finished.” She looked at Michael. “So don’t argue.”

He set his lips.

“You’ve decided these three incidents have been attempts to harm me—but have they? Couldn’t they just as easily have been accidents? Only the first and third actually involved me—it’s pure conjecture that the second was targeted at me. The men attacked Miss Trice, not me. If they’d been sent to kidnap me, why did they seize her?”

Michael bit his tongue; furnished with a sketchy description, in the deceptive twilight making such a mistake would be easy. He exchanged a long glance with Edward.

“As for the third incident,” Caro rattled on, “an arrow shot from the forest too close to the edge of a crowd. Doing such a thing and successfully hitting a particular person—the archer would need to be a better marksman than Robin Hood. It was pure luck I happened to be there at that moment, that’s all. The arrow had nothing to do with me specifically.”

He and Edward kept silent. This was one argument Caro wasn’t going to let them win; there was no point pursuing it even though they were convinced they were right. They’d simply watch her anyway.

“And even you and Hardacre thought the first incident with the pellets was just boys being stupid.” Caro spread her hands. “So we have two likely accidents, and one attack. And while I grant the attack on Miss Trice wasn’t an accident, there’s no evidence it was me those men were after. Indeed, there’s no reason to think that anyone wishes me, specifically me, ill.”

She concluded on a definite note. She glanced at them, first one, then the other. They met her gaze and said nothing.

Caro frowned. She opened her lips—then had to swallow her “Well, what do you think?” as Elizabeth entered.

Michael rose; he and Elizabeth shook hands.

Bright-eyed, Elizabeth looked around. “Have you been discussing the fete—or business?”

“Both,” Caro replied, and rose, too. She didn’t want Michael and Edward worrying Elizabeth with speculations. “But we’ve exhausted both topics, and now Edward is free. I’m going for a stroll in the gardens.”

Michael reached across and appropriated her hand. “An excellent idea. After all those hours amid the crowds, you’re no doubt longing for silence and solitude.” He drew her hand through his arm. “Come, I’ll walk with you.”

He turned to the door. She narrowed her eyes at him; he’d taken the words out of her mouth and turned them to his own advantage.

“Very well,” she assented as he guided her through the doorway. “But”—she lowered her voice—“I’m not going anywhere near the summerhouse.”

The way he smiled in response, his expression shadowed in the dimmer corrider, did nothing for her equanimity.

But as they strolled across the lawns, then along the walks lushly bordered by beds burgeoning with the summer’s verdant growth, the peace of their surroundings closed in, cocooning them from the world, and her serenity returned, bringing with it a degree of ease, of acceptance.

She glanced at him; he was looking about them. “I really can’t believe anyone is seeking to harm me.”

He looked down at her. “I know.” He studied her eyes, then said, “However, Edward and I do.”

She grimaced and looked ahead.

After a moment, he lowered his arm, took her hand in his, and said, his voice even, but low, “We both care for you, Caro—consider… if we were ultimately proved right, but hadn’t taken any precautions, hadn’t done what we could have and you were hurt, or killed…”

She frowned; they walked on.

“We’ll keep watch over you—you won’t even be aware of it.”

Much he knew; she’d know every instant, would feel his gaze on her… would that be bad?

She inwardly frowned, thankful when he said no more but gave her time to wrestle with what for her was a novel situation. No one before had “watched over her” for the reasons he’d given. Camden had been protective, but only because she’d been one of his most treasured possessions, and she used the word “possessions” advisedly, that was what she’d been to him.

Edward was attached to her; they shared a common bond through their years with Camden and their respect for him and his memory. Edward and she were friends as well as associates; she wasn’t surprised he was concerned for her safety.

But Michael… his quiet tone veiled yet, she suspected quite deliberately, didn’t conceal a wealth of deeper emotions, and a need—a reason—to watch over her, to guard and protect her, which stemmed from a different source. It was a form of possessiveness, true, but one that arose not from an appreciation for and a need of her skills, her talents, but from an appreciation for and need of her, herself, the woman she was.

“Yes. All right.” Her agreement was on her lips before she’d thought further, already distracted by a wish—a strong urge and desire—to learn more about his need of her, to understand the true nature of what drove him to protect her. Halting, she faced him. Looked into his eyes. “Will you spend the day with me?”

He blinked, briefly searched her eyes as if to confirm the invitation, then reached for her. “Gladly.” He bent his head. “There isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.”

They were in a secluded walk, fully screened by thick bushes. She stepped into his arms, twined hers about his neck, and met his lips. Parting hers, she ardently welcomed him in, artfully teased.

Tempted, flagrantly taunted.

She knew what she wanted; so did he.

Within minutes, the reality was apparent; desire hummed through their veins, thrummed beneath their skins. Their mouths greedily, hungrily melded, sharing heat, fire, stoking their conflagration, reveling in it.

She pressed closer, arched against him; he shuddered and drew her closer still, molded her to him.

He broke from the kiss, laid a tracery of fiery kisses from temple to ear, ducked beneath to continue the line down the arched length of her throat. “The summerhouse is too risky.” His words were a trifle rushed, fractionally breathless. Infinitely persuasive. “Come back to the Manor with me. The staff might be shocked, but they’ll be discreet. They won’t talk… not about us.”

From his point of view, the matter was irrelevant; he intended to marry her, soon. More important and urgent was their mutual need for privacy.

Caro lifted weighted lids and looked at him. Moistened her lips, cleared her throat. “There’s somewhere I know where we can go.”

He forced his mind to think, but couldn’t imagine where…

She saw; the smile that curved her lips was essentially, fundamentally feminine. “Trust me.” Her eyes lit, almost mischievous. Drawing back from his embrace, she took his hand. “Come with me.”

It took him an instant to recognize the sultry invitation, his own seductive phrase given back to him, its potency multiplied a thousand times by the look in her eyes, by the spritelike way she turned and led him further along the path.

At no point did it occur to him to refuse.

She was a wood nymph leading him, a mere mortal, astray. He told her so and she laughed, the silvery sound drifting on the breeze— reminding him anew of his pledge to draw that magical sound from her more often.

Hand in hand, they descended through the gardens, eventually leaving the tended areas through a narrow gate in a hedge. Beyond lay a medley of meadow and wood, largely undisturbed by man. The path led underneath trees, then across open clearings where grasses encroached, reducing it at times to little more than a track.

Caro’s feet seemed to follow it instinctively; she neither looked for landmarks nor searched for the path but strolled on, glancing at the birds flitting through the trees, occasionally lifting her face to the sun.

In the middle of one clearing, he halted, drew her back to him. Into his arms. The house was some distance behind them; he bent his head and kissed her, long, deep, letting his real yearning have full sway—a yearning he was learning, day by day, possessed a greater depth and breadth than he’d imagined it ever could.

Finally raising his head, he watched her face, watched her lids flutter, then rise, revealing the silvery sheen of her eyes. He smiled. “Where are you taking me?” Lifting her hand, he brushed a kiss across her fingertips. “Where is your bower of unearthly bliss?”

She laughed, a joyous sound, but shook her head at him. “You won’t know of it—it’s a special place.” They started walking again; after a moment, she murmured, her voice soft, low, as magical as her laugh, “It is a bower of sorts.” She glanced up, fleetingly met his eyes. “A place apart from the world.” Smiling, she looked ahead.

He didn’t press for more; she clearly wanted to surprise him, show him… anticipation flared, steadily built as she led him deeper into the wooded reaches of her family’s property. She had spent her childhood here; she knew its grounds as well as he knew his own. He couldn’t, however, guess where she was making for; he wasn’t lost, but… “I’ve never been this way before.”

She glanced at him, smiled, then looked ahead. “Few people have. It’s a family secret.”

After twenty minutes of strolling, they crested a small rise; beyond, a grassy meadow rolled down to the banks of the stream, here swiftly rushing. The swoosh of the water’s gushing progress reached them; fine spray rose and swirled between the banks.

Caro halted; smiling, she waved ahead. “That’s where we’re going.” She glanced at him. “Where I’m taking you.”

On either side of the meadow, the woods marched down to the stream’s edge, framing a tiny cottage that stood on an island set in the middle of the widening stream. A narrow plank bridge arched over the rushing waters; the cottage was old, built of stone, but was clearly in excellent condition.

“Come on.” She tugged, and he obliging walked on at her side; his gaze remained riveted on the cottage.

“Whose is it?”

“It used to be my mother’s.” She caught his gaze as he glanced at her. “She was a painter, remember. She loved the light out here, and the sound of the stream rushing into the weir.”

“Weir?”

She pointed to the right; as they descended through the meadow, a huge body of water came into sight.

He got his bearings. “Geoffrey’s weir.”

Caro nodded.

He’d known of the weir’s existence, but had never had reason to come this way. The stream bubbled and boiled as it swept into the weir; even though it was summer and the flow far less than in winter, the island in the middle of the streambed forced the incoming water to split and rush past on either side.

Halting a yard from the bridge, he looked around. The stream banks were high, the water level at present much lower than that possible, yet even if the stream did overflow, as it would during a significant thaw, the island was higher than where they stood; much of the meadow flat would flood before the cottage’s foundations got wet.

The bridge was as narrow as it had appeared from a distance, just wide enough for one person. It arched over its span to the island; a single handrail was fixed along one side.

But it was the cottage itself that commanded his attention; it looked to be one large room with numerous windows. The door, shutters, and window frames were brightly painted; flowers nodded and bobbed about a small paved area before the front door.

The cottage was not only in excellent repair, it was in use—not deserted.

“It was originally built as a folly,” Caro said. Slipping her fingers from his, she stepped onto the bridge. “Rather more substantial than most, as it’s such a long way from the house and so isolated. Mama loved it here—well”—starting across the bridge, she waved at the weir—“you can imagine the play of light off and over the weir at sunrise, at sunset, during storms.”

“She came here at sunrise?” Michael followed her onto the bridge, wary at first, but it proved to be solid.

Caro glanced back. “Oh, yes.” She looked ahead. “This was her hideaway—her own special place.” Stepping onto the island, she spread her arms, lifted her head, whirled and faced him. “And now it’s mine.”

He grinned, caught her to him as he stepped off the bridge and backed her up the short path. “You weed the beds?”

She grinned back. “Not me. Mrs. Judson. She was Mama’s maid when Mama first came here—she used to keep the cottage and the garden perfect for Mama to use.” She glanced around, then turned out of his arms and reached for the doorknob. “After Mama died, the others were all grown and gone except for Geoffrey. He had no use for it, so I claimed it for my own.”

Setting the door wide, Caro walked through, then paused and looked back. Michael filled the doorway, his large, strong frame haloed by the sun. With his clothes thrown into shadow, he appeared timeless, paganly, elementally male. A shiver of awareness, of delicious anticipation, slithered down her nerves. Lifting her chin, she locked her eyes on his. “Other than Judson, who spends Friday afternoons here, no one comes here but me.”

It wasn’t Friday.

His lips curved; for one long moment, he studied her, then, his gaze unwavering, he stepped over the threshold, reached behind him, and closed the door.