“No.” She hung on to the curricle’s rail as he turned out into the lane in style. “It’s a form of obsession, I think.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that.”
The rattle of the wheels, counterpointed by the sharp clop of hooves, settled to a steady beat. The night about them was quiet and still, the breeze nothing more than a gentle caress.
“Are you going to tell me who you’re running from to night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I can’t. Because I don’t dare. Because it isn’t my secret to share. She shifted on the seat, very conscious of him close beside her, the warm solid reality of him. His sleek elegance disguised how large he was; he was taller, broader, much heavier than she, much stronger, much more powerful.
Seated side by side on the curricle’s narrow seat, his presence surrounded her.
What she couldn’t understand was why it made her feel safe, when she knew beyond doubt that he was the biggest threat to her—to herself, to her peace of mind—that she’d ever faced.
“The man who tried to break into the Jockey Club.” She turned her head to view him as they rolled briskly along. “Have you found him yet?”
She needed to keep her mind on her goal and not allow him to distract her, to lure her to trust when it might prove too dangerous.
Dillon glanced briefly at her, then looked back at his horses. “No.” He considered the opening, decided to offer more. “He’s Irish—just like you.”
“Is he?”
She didn’t even bother to pretend she hadn’t known. He glanced at her again. She caught his gaze, opened her eyes wide. “How difficult could it be to find one Irishman in Newmarket?”
Despite her attempt to make the question a taunt, he knew it was real—she actually wanted to know.
Lips curving cynically, he looked to his horses. “As you’ve no doubt discovered, Priscilla, finding an Irishman in Newmarket is no problem at all. But finding one particular Irishman? Given the number of Irish lads and jockeys working here, let alone those over for the racing, locating any particular one is like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.”
She didn’t reply. He shot her a glance, and found her expression serious, almost brooding.
“Who is he?” The question was out before he’d thought. She looked at him; he added, “Perhaps I could help.”
She held his gaze for an instant, then shook her head and faced forward. “I can’t tell you.”
He checked his blacks for the turn into the Carisbrook drive. At least she’d stopped pretending she wasn’t looking for some Irishman. He’d suggested brother, and she’d denied it. If not brother, then…lover?
He didn’t like the thought, but forced himself to examine it. She was gently bred, of that he was sure, but she wouldn’t be the first gentleman’s daughter to lose her heart to some charismatic horse fancier. Against that, however, stood her aunt’s involvement. Lady Fowles was simply too familiar a type of lady for him to believe she would ever be a party to Pris chasing after some dissolute, or even merely unsuitable, lover.
It came back to a brother.
Or a cousin. Flick, after all, had stood by him, had done things that even now gave him nightmares in order to help him break free.
“I was once involved in a race-fixing swindle.”
Her head swung around so fast her ringlets flew. “What?”
He met her stunned gaze, then, glancing around, slowed his horses. The drive was a long one; they were only halfway to the house. If he was going to reveal even that to persuade her to trust him, they needed somewhere to talk. If he remembered aright…
He found the track a little way along, almost grassed over. Turning the horses onto it, he set them walking.
“Where…?” She was peering ahead, over the lawn to where a line of trees crossed their path.
“Just wait.”
Guiding the blacks through the trees, he drove them up to the summer house standing beyond the end of the elongated ornamental lake before the house.
Reining in, he stepped down. Playing out the reins, he tethered the pair so they could stand and graze. The curricle rocked as Pris clambered down; he glimpsed slender ankles amid a froth of skirts.
She walked to him, puzzlement in her face. “What did you say?”
He waved to the summer house. “Let’s go inside.”
She led the way, plainly familiar with the wide, open room tucked under the domed roof. Of painted white wood, the summerhouse was simply furnished with a wicker sofa and one matching armchair, both liberally padded, placed to look down the vista of the lake to the distant house.
Pris sat in one corner of the sofa. She was not just intrigued but captured, not just eager but urgent to hear what he’d meant. And what he intended—why he’d volunteered to speak of such a thing.
But she needed to see his face, so the safety of the armchair wasn’t an option. Outside, the moonlight cast a pearly sheen, but within the summer house, it was considerably dimmer. At her wave, he sat beside her. She studied his face; she could discern his features, but not the emotions in his eyes.
“I can’t believe you—the Keeper of the Breeding Register—were ever involved in anything illicit. At least not about racing.”
He met her gaze. After a moment, asked, “Can’t you?”
It was as if he’d deliberately let his glamor fall, completely and utterly, so that she was suddenly looking at the real man, without any protective screen at all. She looked, examined; gradually it came to her.
She blew out a breath. Curling her legs, she shifted so she could fix her gaze on his face. “All right. Perhaps I can imagine it. You were wild as a youth, and—”
“Not just wild. Reckless.” He paused, his eyes steady on hers; after a moment, he asked, “Isn’t that what it takes?”
She didn’t reply.
A pregnant moment ticked by, then he faced forward, settling his shoulders against the sofa’s back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. He looked across the smooth surface of the lake to the distant glimmer that was the house; his lips curved, not cynically but in self-deprecation.
“Wild, reckless, and game for any lark.” His tone suggested he viewed his younger self from a considerable distance, a separation in time and place. “Hedonistic, conceited, and selfish, and, naturally, immature. I had everything—name, money, every comfort. But I wanted more. No—I craved more. I needed excitement and thrills. My father tried, as fathers do, to rein me in, but in those days neither of us understood what drove the other.” He paused, then baldly stated, “I became involved in betting on cockfights, got deeply in debt, which then left me—as the only son of the wealthy Keeper of the Stud Book, a revered member of the Jockey Club—open to blackmail.”
He paused, gazing unseeing down the lake, then went on, his voice even but with darker currents rippling beneath. “They wanted me to act as a runner, organizing jockeys to hold back their mounts—a common enough scam in those days. I was just…cowardly enough to convince myself that falling in with their plan was my only choice.”
This time, his pause lasted longer, the emotions ran deeper; Pris could find no adequate words to break it, so she waited.
Eventually, he stirred and glanced briefly at her. “Flick stood by me. She got Demon to help, and together they pulled me free of it. They exposed the race-fixing racket and the gentleman behind it—and forced me to, gave me the opportunity to, grow up.”
“What happened to the cowardly streak?” When he glanced at her, she pointed out, “You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you weren’t sure you’d grown out of it.”
His teeth flashed in a brief, cynically acknowledging smile before he looked back at the lake. “The coward in me died the instant the blackguard behind the scheme pointed a pistol at Flick.” His gaze shifted over the silent water. A moment passed before he said, “It was strange—a moment when my life truly changed, whe
n I suddenly saw what was important and what wasn’t. To have someone I loved suffer because of something I’d foolishly done…I couldn’t—absolutely and beyond question could not—face that.”
“What happened? Was she shot?”
He shook his head. “No.”
He said nothing more. She frowned, analyzing, then it came to her, like a premonition, only more certain. “You got shot instead.”
Without looking at her, he shrugged. “Only reasonable in the circumstances. I survived.”
A penance, a payment he didn’t want to discuss. She had a good idea why he’d told her what he had, and where he was steering their conversation—in a direction she didn’t want it to go. “The wild and reckless.”
She waited until he looked at her, met her eyes. “Being wild and reckless is part of your soul.” She knew that as well as she knew her own. “You can’t lose characteristics like that, so where are they now? What do you do to satisfy the craving for excitement and thrills?”
She was curious; his eyes traveled her face, and she suspected he understood. That he saw that that was a question to which she’d yet to find an answer herself.
The smile that curled the ends of his lips suggested a certain sympathy. “Back then, I wondered—feared—that I’d become addicted to gambling, but to my relief, I found that wasn’t so. I am”—he tilted his head her way in wry acknowledgment—“addicted, but to the rush of excitement, the thrill that comes with…success, I suppose. In winning, in succeeding, in beating the odds.” He glanced briefly at her. “Luckily, my addiction didn’t care in which endeavor I succeeded—it was the achievement that counted.”
“So which endeavors have you been succeeding in?” She opened her eyes wide. “I can’t imagine tending the Breeding Register for the Jockey Club qualifies.”
Dillon grinned. “Not on its best day. My position there is more a long-term interest, almost a hereditary one. No, through Demon and the rest of his family, the Cynsters, I became involved in investing.”
“Not the Funds, I take it?”
The dryness of her comment made him smile. “Having been educated by the best in the field, some of my wealth is of course deposited in the Funds, but you’re right—the excitement and thrills come from the rest. The ferreting out of new opportunities, the evaluating, the projections, the possibilities—it’s a wager of sorts, but on a much grander scale, with many more factors to take into account, but if you learn the right skills and use them well, the chances of success are immeasurably greater than in gaming—and the thrills and excitement commensurately more intense.”
She looked at the lake and sighed. “And therefore more satisfying.”
He eyed her profile. He wasn’t entirely certain why he’d told her so much, but the telling had only reinforced his sense of obligation. He owed so much to so many—to Flick most of all, but also to Demon and the Cynsters in general. When he’d been in trouble, they’d freely and openly given him the aid he’d needed to reclaim his life. Through them, he’d made friends, acquaintances, and connections that he valued immensely, that were fundamentally important to who he now was.
Others had given him a great deal when he’d been in need.
Now Pris Dalling, and whoever she was protecting, needed help; he couldn’t walk away, couldn’t not offer his aid in turn.
“I told you about my past so you’d understand that, if you or whoever you’re protecting has become embroiled in any illicit scheme and are finding it difficult to break free, then I, of all people, will understand.” He waited until she turned her head and faced him, he sensed reluctantly. “If they’re in trouble and need help, I’m prepared to give it, but in order to do so, you’ll have to tell me who they are and what’s going on.”
Holding his gaze, Pris found herself facing the crux of her problem. She knew in her heart Rus would never willingly have become embroiled in any illicit scheme, but why hadn’t he come forward and reported what ever it was he’d learned? Why was he hiding?
She didn’t know; until she did…grimacing, she looked back at the lake. “I can’t tell you.”
Despite her best efforts, the words rang with real reluctance; despite her loyalty to Rus, the urge to grasp the hand Dillon held out was surprisingly strong—especially after that incident with Harkness, compounded by Cromarty’s appearance that evening.
Since sighting Rus on the night he’d tried to break into the Jockey Club, she’d learned nothing more of his whereabouts. And with Harkness stalking the Heath and Cromarty swaggering about the ballrooms, her ability to search was becoming restricted.
She needed help, but…
Dillon moved, drawing his hands from his pockets and shifting to face her.
He was regrouping to press her further; she struck before he could, offense being infinitely preferable to defense, especially where he was concerned. She looked at him, let their gazes clash and lock—suddenly very aware of him, large, dark and dangerous, one muscled arm draped along the sofa’s back. “I need to know the implications of what I’m telling you before I do. If you’ll tell me what’s in the register…?”
He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then inflexibly replied, “I can’t.”
Where the compulsion came from she didn’t know—part aggression, part rising fear, and partly that wild and reckless craving for excitement and thrills that was as intrinsic a part of her as it was of him.
“Perhaps I can persuade you…?” The words fell from her lips, sultry and low.
Before he could react, raising her hands to frame his face, she leaned forward and kissed him.
8
Pris wanted nothing more than to distract him, and herself. To set aside her escalating troubles and for just a few minutes be herself. To soothe her restless soul with just a taste of the wild and reckless.
He tasted of both, of a dark flaring need that tempted and taunted, that teased her with a promise of illicit and dangerous pleasures, of atavistic delights beyond her ken.
His lips met hers without hesitation, returning the pressure, but no more; he took what she offered, but made no demands, left her to make the running as if aloofly sitting back to see how far she would go—how serious she was about persuading him.
Not in her wildest imaginings did she think she could, certainly not like this. Her wish to see the register wasn’t the reason she leaned into him, traced his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, boldly entered his mouth when he parted his lips, and tempted him more.
Asked for more. All but pleaded.
He moved; his arm left the back of the sofa and slowly encircled her, then tightened, urging her to him. His other hand rose, fingers splaying to cradle her head as he smoothly slid the reins from her grasp, drew her nearer yet, all but into his lap as he angled his head and took control.
Of the kiss, and all else she would cede to him, but passivity wasn’t her style; she drew a line and held to it, letting him kiss her as he would, show her what he would, but reserving the right to redirect their play if she wished. If she wanted.
Now, this minute, she wanted him. Wanted to feel his tongue stroking hers, wanted to experience again the hot tide of wanton desire he so readily called forth. His lips moved on hers, demanding, definitely commanding, yet still unurgent, still effortlessly, arrogantly, controlled.
She met each questing stroke of his tongue, dueled, retreated, allowed him to explore, then grasping his head tightly between her hands, boldly returned the plea sure.
Sensed, then, just for an instant—a second of hesitation when she felt his control momentarily crack, and she saw past it—what he hid behind his sophisticated façade.
Something not sophisticated at all. Something primal, powerful, and predatory, something with teeth and claws and burning eyes, a desire so wild, so reckless and passionate that, if let free, unrestrained, it possessed power enough to shake both their worlds.
The ultimate temptation for the wild and reckless.
The ultimate sin for those who
couldn’t resist the lure.
She saw, craved. Hungered. She reached for it, without hesitation sank into him, drew him deep into her mouth, and with lips and tongue invited.
Dillon inwardly cursed, and resisted. He’d intended calling her bluff, nothing more. Intended letting her masquerade as the femme fatale she pretended to be—he knew it was a pose—to let her play out her hand and learn she couldn’t win…
He’d forgotten how susceptible he was. Not to her, herself—the simple appreciation for a female body he could and would have easily controlled—but to the passion she evoked and sent racing down his veins, to the sheer unadulterated lust that, with her in his arms, fogged his brain.
He tried to ignore it, battled to block it out—and failed. Heat swirled through him, rose like a tidal wave he couldn’t hope to hold back. In desperation, he gripped her waist and tried to ease her back, to create space between their heating bodies, preferably to break the kiss—an engagement that was rushing down an increasingly slippery slope to raging, mindless need.
She wouldn’t have it, simply wouldn’t be denied; she came up on her knees, clamped her hands on his shoulders, and used her leveraged weight to wedge him into the sofa’s corner. The angled sides restricted him; she compounded his problems by sinking more definitely, more enticingly against him, and letting her hands roam.
Under his coat, over his chest, opening and brushing aside his waistcoat, sweeping wide, then down to grip his sides while her tongue played havoc with his senses, and the soft weight of her firm feminine curves, supple and giving, beckoned and lured…that prowling, predatory side of him he barely recognized, yet knew to be him. That facet of him she so effortlessly provoked into being.
He fought to catch his mental breath, to get a firm grip on his wits if not his senses. Metaphorically girding his loins, he gathered his will and tried his level best to sit up and move her back—
She felt his muscles bunching, countered his move.
He raised his shoulders free of the corner, only to have her determinedly bear him down, fractionally to the side and around so that his back hit the raised arm of the sofa. The shuffle of female limbs screened by fine silk over and between his thighs, the shushing shift of her skirts as she twitched them and wriggled, totally distracted him.
What Price Love? Page 13