That fact kept the kiss light, lips brushing, caressing, firming even while they both continued to listen.
Eventually came the sounds they were waiting for, a faint curse in Portuguese followed by the sound of Ferdinand’s footsteps retreating.
Relief swept Caro, softening her spine; she relaxed. Before she could collect her wits and retreat, Michael seized the moment, juggled and turned her fully into his arms, closed them about her, parted her lips and slid into the honeyed cavern of her mouth.
And took, tasted, tantalized…and she was with him, following his script, content, it seemed, both to allow and appreciate the slowly escalating intimacy that each successive encounter brought. Wrought. A reflection of the steadily escalating desire building within him and, he was sure, in her.
He felt confident of that last even though she was extremely difficult to read, and apparently set on denying it.
Recalling that, recalling his real purpose in coming after her, and accepting that greater privacy would be wise, he reluctantly eased back from the kiss.
Lifting his head, he looked into her face, watched the shadows of emotions swim through her eyes as she blinked and reassembled her wits.
Then she glared, stiffened, and pushed back from his embrace.
Managing to keep his lips straight, he let her go, but caught her hand, stopping her from stalking off.
She frowned at his hand, locked about hers, then lifted a chilly gaze to his face. “I should return to the clearing.”
He raised his brows. “Leponte is lurking somewhere between the clearing and here—are you sure you want to risk running into him…alone, under the trees…”
Any lingering doubts over how she saw Leponte—any inclination to view the man as a rival—were banished, reduced to ashes by the aggravation in her eyes, by the nature of her hesitation. Her gaze remained locked with his; her expression eased from haughty dismissal to exasperation.
Before she could formulate some other plan, he said, “I was on my way to check the pond, to make sure the stream is still running freely. You may as well come with me.”
She hesitated, making no secret that she was weighing the risks of accompanying him against those of inadvertently running into Leponte. Unwilling to utter any promise or assurance he had no intention of keeping, he kept silent and waited.
Eventually, she grimaced. “All right.”
Nodding, he turned away so she wouldn’t see his smile. Hand in hand, they left the protection of the elders and headed further along the stream.
She threw him a suspicious glance. “I thought you said the stream was unblocked?”
“It was, but as I’m here”—he glanced at her—“with nothing better to do, I thought I’d make sure we’ve got the problem permanently fixed.”
He walked on, leading her deeper into the forest.
The pond was well known to locals, but as it was buried deep in Eyeworth Wood, a segment of the forest and part of his lands, few others knew or even suspected its existence. It was located in a narrow valley, and the surrounding vegetation was dense, less easy to penetrate than the tracts of open forest.
Ten minutes of tramping along forest paths brought them to the pond’s edge. Fed by the stream, it was deep enough for the surface to appear glassy and still. At dawn and dusk, the pond drew forest animals large and small; in midafternoon, the heat—not as heavy here, yet still considerable—wrapped the scene in somnolence. They were the only creatures awake, the only ones moving.
They glanced around, drinking in the quiet beauty, then, still holding Caro’s hand, Michael led the way around the bank to where the stream exited the pond.
It was gurgling merrily, the sound a delicate tinkling melody falling into the forest silence.
Halting at the stream’s head, he pointed to a spot ten yards along. “A tree had lodged there—presumably it came down in winter. There was debris built up around it, almost a dam. We hauled out the tree and the worst of it, and hoped the stream would clear the rest itself.”
She studied the free-flowing water. “It seems to have done so.”
He nodded, gripped her hand and stepped back. Drew her back with him—without warning released her hand, locked his about her waist, lifted and whirled her; setting her down at the base of a huge oak, her back to the bole, he bent his head and kissed her.
Thoroughly this time.
He sensed her gasp—knew she tried to summon and cling to outrage—felt a spurt of very masculine delight when she failed utterly. When despite her clear intent to resist she instead met his thrusting tongue, when within seconds her lips firmed and, for her almost boldly, with that lick of elusive passion, not only met his demands, but seemed intent on gaining more.
The result was a kiss, a succession of increasingly heated exchanges that, to his considerable surprise, evolved into a senusal game of a type he’d never played before. It took him some moments—it took effort to tear even a part of his mind free enough to think—before he realized what was different.
She might not have had much experience kissing, believing, wrongly, that she didn’t know how; he’d expected her, once he’d seduced her thus far, to be eager to learn—as indeed she was. What he hadn’t expected was her attitude, her approach to that learning, yet now he was dealing with it, lips to lips, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, it was, indeed, pure Caro.
He was starting to realize she did not possess an acquiescent bone in her body. If she agreed, she went forward, determined and resolute; if she disagreed, she would resist equally trenchantly.
But being acquiescent, going along with something without any real commitment, was simply not Caro.
Now he’d forced her to face the question, she’d obviously decided to take him up on his offer to teach her to kiss. Indeed, she seemed intent on getting him to teach her more—her lips, her responses, were increasingly demanding. Commanding. Matching him, step by step, meeting him toe to toe.
If the complete capture of his senses, the total immersion of his attention in the exchange, the increasingly definite reaction of his body were anything to go by, she didn’t need any more teaching.
Abruptly, he pulled back, broke the kiss, aware of just how dangerously insistent his own desire was growing. Aware of the rising beat in his blood. He lifted his head only inches, waited until her lids fluttered, then rose—searched her silver eyes.
He needed to know if she was where he thought she was, if he was reading her responses accurately. What he saw…was at first surprising, then intensely gratifying. A degree of amazement—almost wonder—lit her lovely eyes. Her lips were full, a lusher pink, slightly swollen; her expression turned considering, assessing, yet he sensed beneath it all that she was pleased.
She cleared her throat; her gaze dropped to his lips before she quickly raised it and attempted to frown at him. She tried to ease back, but the bole was behind her. “I—”
He swooped, cut her off, shut her up. Shifted closer and slowly, deliberately, pinned her against the tree.
Felt her fingers tense on his shoulders, then ease.
She’d been about to protest, to insist they stop and rejoin the others—it was what she’d feel she had to say. Not necessarily what she wanted.
Most of her would-be suitors, he would wager, had failed to grasp that point. Caro played by the social rules; while she was an expert at bending them to her cause, she also felt bound by them. She’d been married for nine years; she would have got into the habit of refusing all invitations to dalliance. Her reaction was doubtless now ingrained; as he’d just proved, the only way to get inside her defenses was to ignore them, and the rules, entirely.
Simply act—and give her the opportunity to react. If she’d truly wished to stop, she would have struggled, resisted; instead, as he deepened the kiss and, leaning one shoulder against the tree, eased her body against his, she slid her arms up and twined them about his neck.
Caro clung to him, drank in his kiss, brazenly kissed him back—and
ignored the tiny, dwindling voice of reason that kept insisting this was wrong. Not only wrong, but seriously, dangerously stupid. Right now, she didn’t care, swept away on a tide of exultation she’d never before experienced—never expected to experience.
Michael truly wanted to kiss her. Not once, not twice, but many times. More, he seemed…she didn’t know what the burgeoning compulsion she sensed in him truly was, but the word that came to mind was “hungry.”
Hungry for her, for her lips, for her mouth, to take and savor as much as she would allow. As he could seduce her to allow, yet in terms of seduction, to her his very wanting was the ultimate temptation. Just as well he didn’t know, and she was far too wise to tell him.
His lips, hard and commanding, on hers, the way his tongue filled her mouth, savoring and caressing, then retreated, luring her to reciprocate, was no longer an education but a fascination. A sensual delight she, now reassured, could indulge in and enjoy.
The notion of kissing—at least kissing Michael—no longer filled her with dread. Instead…
Shifting her hands, she spread her fingers, speared them through his thick locks, and gripped, holding his head steady so she could more forcefully press a deep, soul-satisfying kiss on him. A curious heat was building within her; she let it rise and suffuse her, pour through her—and into him.
His reaction was immediate, a surge of ravenous hunger that was acutely satisfying. She met it, urged him on—felt her whole body tighten deliciously when he sank deep into her mouth and plundered.
Indeed, her body seemed to heat even more; the warmth spread in greedy licks beneath her skin. Her breasts felt tight…the weight of his chest against them was curiously soothing, yet not enough.
He suddenly increased the intensity of their exchange with a flagrantly incendiary kiss—one that curled her toes and left parts of her she’d never imagined could be affected throbbing.
Her breasts ached—then he eased back. She gathered her wits to protest—
His hand at her waist released, glided up and settled, hard and definite, his palm spread over her breast.
Her protest died, frozen in her mind. Panic awoke with a jerk—
His hand closed, firm, commanding; her senses splintered. The odd ache eased, then swelled anew.
Eased again as he caressed, kneaded.
For one instant she teetered, uncertain…then heat rose in a wave, rushed through her—and he kissed her more deeply, she kissed him back, openly sharing, and his fingers firmed again.
Panic was smothered beneath a welling tide of sensation; deep and very real curiosity held it down. He’d succeeded in teaching her how to kiss. Perhaps he would, perhaps he could, teach her more….
Michael knew the instant she decided to allow him to caress her; he felt no inward smirk, only heartfelt gratitude. He needed the contact as much as she; she might have starved for years, yet his desire was, at least at this point, the more urgent.
That, he promised himself, would change—he had a very definite vision of what he wanted from her—but that time was not yet. For now…
He kept his lips on hers, artfully distracting her every time he edged their intimacy deeper. Instincts prodded him to open her bodice, to savor her exquisitely fine skin, yet they were standing in the middle of the woods and too soon would need to return to the picnic clearing.
That last prompted him to gradually lighten the kiss, until, without jarring her, he could lift his head and study her face while he continued to caress her. He needed to know her thoughts, her reactions, so he would know how and where to recommence when next they met.
When next he managed to whisk her away and trap her in his arms.
Her lashes fluttered; her lids opened a fraction. Her eyes, bright silver, met his. Neither of them was breathing all that evenly. The first step toward intimacy—the inital commitment to explore what might be—had definitely been taken; their gazes touched, acknowledged.
Caro drew in a tight breath, eased her hands from his neck, his shoulders, and looked down—at his hand, large, strong, long fingers skillfully caressing her breast, circling her now tightly furled nipple, sending sensation streaking through her, leaving her nerves tight, tense, skittering. Her fine voile dress was no real barrier; taking her pebbled nipple between his fingertips, he gently squeezed.
She sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes, let her head fall back—then forced her lids open again and fixed her gaze on his face. His lean, austerely handsome face. If she could have frowned, she would have; she had to content herself with a studiously blank expression. “I didn’t say you could…do this.”
His hand closed again. “You didn’t say I couldn’t, either.”
A faint frown finally came; she narrowed her eyes on his. “Are you saying I can’t trust you anymore?”
His face hardened, so did his eyes, but his hand never faltered in its languid caressing. He studied her for a moment, then said, “You can trust me—always. That I promise. But I’ll also promise more.” His hand firmed about her breast; his eyes held hers. “I won’t promise to behave as you expect.” His gaze lowered to her lips; he leaned closer. “Only as you want. Only as you deserve.”
She would have frowned harder and argued, but he kissed her. Not with ravenous heat, but in a straightforward, deeply satisfying exchange. One that left her social conscience feeling somehow appeased, as if there was no reason she couldn’t simply accept all that had happened between them, adult to adult, and leave it at that.
Despite his high-handed, domineering behavior, she didn’t feel overwhelmed. She knew, absolutely, that he would never hurt or harm her, that if she struggled, he would release her…both actions and words suggested he simply wasn’t going to let her deny him, or herself, purely on the grounds of social strictures.
If she wanted to deny him, she’d need to convince him she really didn’t want to fall in with his plans. Simple enough—except…
Her head was pleasurably swimming, her mind detached, her body warm and heated under his hand.
Suddenly, he broke the kiss. Lifting his head, he looked past her, past the tree. She turned her head, but couldn’t see past the bole.
He’d frozen—all except his fondling fingers. She drew in a tight breath, about to ask what was there—his gaze flicked back to her face, his eyes widening in warning.
Then, swift and silent, he moved, stepping to her side, turning and drawing her with him around the tree; he ended with his back to the bole, more or less to the pond itself, while she stood trapped against him, her back to his chest, facing away from the pond, shielded from whatever danger threatened.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him looking over his, peering around the tree toward the pond. Then he looked back, met her gaze. Lowering his head, he nudged hers until he could whisper in her ear, “Ferdinand. Keep quiet. He doesn’t know we’re here.”
She blinked. He straightened again; she sensed he was keeping watch, yet…while his attention had diverted and his fingers had slowed, they hadn’t stopped. Her skin still felt hot, her breasts tight, her nerves jangling.
Worse, his other hand had risen to minister in apparently absentminded concert.
It was, she discovered, extremely difficult to think.
Regardless, she couldn’t protest.
Minutes of nerve-tingling tension passed, then the alertness gripping him eased. He turned back to her, leaned close, and whispered, “He’s heading away from us.”
Valiantly ignoring the preoccupation of his hands, she turned and peered past him, and glimpsed Ferdinand striding into the forest, following a path leading away from the pond’s opposite side.
Michael had seen, too. He caught her eye, closed his hands firmly, then eased his hold, trailing his palms down her body as he released her.
She dragged in a fractionally deeper breath.
He studied her eyes, then bent his head and kissed her—one last time. An ending, and a promise—until next time.
Lifting his head, he
met her gaze. “We’d better get back.”
She nodded. “Indeed.”
They set out around the pond; when they reached the opening of the path that led back toward the clearing, she paused, looking further around the pond to the path Ferdinand had taken. “He’s going the wrong way.”
Michael met her gaze; his jaw hardened. “He’s a grown man.”
“Yes, but—” She looked down the other path. “You know how easy it is to get lost in here. And if he does wander off and lose his way, the whole company will get caught up trying to find him.”
She was right. He sighed, and waved toward the other path. “Come on—he can’t be far ahead.”
With a quick smile in acknowledgment of his capitulation, she led the way. Fifty yards on, the path hit a downward slope badly crisscrossed with roots; he stepped past her and went ahead, giving her his hand to ensure she didn’t slip.
They were concentrating on their descent, not speaking but watching their feet, when low voices reached them. They paused, looked ahead; both knew another small clearing opened to the side of the path a little way along.
He glanced back, put his finger to his lips. Frowning, Caro nodded. This was his land, but it wasn’t fenced; he’d never prevented locals from using it. But they’d both caught the furtive note of the murmured conversation; it seemed wise not to walk into a situation where they might not be welcome. Especially not with Caro by his side; there were at least two men, possibly more.
Luckily, it was easy to step off the narrow path, then continue between the trees. The undergrowth was sufficient to screen them. Eventually they reached a spot where they could look through a large bush into the clearing.
In it, Ferdinand stood talking to two men. They were slight, rather weaselly, dressed in threadbare frieze. They were definitely not Ferdinand’s friends; from their interaction, however, it seemed likely they were his employees.
Michael and Caro had arrived too late to hear any of the discussion, just assurances from the weaselly two that they would perform whatever job Ferdinand had hired them for, and Ferdinand’s curt, aristocratic dismissal. That delivered, he turned on his heel and walked back out of the clearing.
The Ideal Bride Page 15